


No Rest for the Wicked

by DevinBourdain



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint whump, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Tony Needs a Hug, cheating death, team sorrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 63,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevinBourdain/pseuds/DevinBourdain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stark Industries revolutionized the weapon's business, its legacy being one of keeping the world safe. For Tony, the days of his weapons being used against him were over. He was wrong.  Now he and the team have to deal with the collateral damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Avengers characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.
> 
> Reviews are always welcome and appreciated

Bruce stared at the cupboard blankly, not sure what was going to relieve the slight headache that was threatening to take hold. It had been a relatively calm month, allowing for the team to enjoy taking the time to do simple things or even better, nothing at all. Needing a much desired break from staring at research notes and mathematical formulas, Banner had decided to take advantage of the many quiet places around Stark Tower.

With a gentle breeze on his face and the sun warming his back, Bruce had set up camp on the balcony with his chess board. His solitude hadn't lasted long as Thor wandered out requesting that the doctor give him yet another chance at the Midgardian game of strategy. Against better judgment and personal experience, Bruce agreed to give teaching chess to the god of thunder one more go. A decision he was once again regretting as he finally pulled out a box of tea from the cupboard and began to boil some water.

Carrying his tea to the living room, he flopped down in corner of the large leather couch releasing a long pent up sigh. Teaching Thor to play chess should not be as stressful as it always turned out to be.

"For a man with nothing to do the last few weeks, you look a little frazzled doctor," commented Natasha.

Bruce looked up to find she had placed a bookmark in her book, giving him her full attention while Clint continued to fiddle with the fletching on one of his arrows while simultaneously bouncing a rubber ball around the room with his other hand; a task made even more impressive by the fact that he never actually looked at the ball.

"I was trying to teach Thor how to play chess. For someone who was raised with battle strategies, I can't figure out why he can't pick this up."

Before Natasha could reply with more than a coy smile, Barton piped up. "He's fucking with you."

"Come again?" asked Banner trying to keep up with the new direction of the conversation.

"Jane taught him to play a long time ago. He's awesome at it; gave Natasha a good run for her money a few times," added Clint with sadistic joy.

A confused look washed over Bruce's face as he reexamined all of the times he and Thor had sat around the chessboard. His questioning of the universe was put on hold as the bickering of Pepper and Tony announced the arrival of the elevator to the common floor. Pepper led the charge with Tony trailing behind still engaged in their discussion, undeterred by the fact that company was present.

"Sit!" she ordered, pointing at the couch and waiting expectantly for compliance with her best CEO glower.

Tony complied, hobbling over with an heir of defiance despite his capitulation. He maneuvered himself down, placing his crutches on the ground beside him.

"What happened?" asked Bruce, slightly alarmed at his friend's current state. The pair had taken a pre-honeymoon in preparation for their future nuptials and both were healthy upon leaving. Though they had yet to set a date, Tony and Pepper were more than willing to show the world how enthralled in the honeymoon stage they were.

"We had to cut our trip to Canmore a little short," started Pepper.

"A little accident on the slopes. Small break, should heal in a couple of weeks," interrupted Tony.

"I thought you were good at skiing, Stark," snorted Natasha.

"Accidents happen," the billionaire defended.

Pepper grabbed one of the throw pillows off of the recliner and fluffed it before placing it on the stool she propped Tony's leg up on. "Especially when you have your eyes glued to the scantily clad ass of the snow bunny in front of you instead of what you're doing," she chastised.

"I wasn't checking out her ass I…"he protested, only to trail off at the sight of Pepper's disbelieving, ' _I've heard it all before'_ look. "I might have glanced at it," he mumbled in defeat.

"Right," chuckled Potts. Turning to Bruce her hard stare softened as she asked, "Could I borrow you for a second?"

"Sure," replied Banner, taking one long sip to empty his cup. The two headed back towards the elevator, joined by Natasha who had also excused herself from the living room under the claim of not wanting to hear about the theoretical conquest of snow bunnies. To Stark's credit, he was completely faithful and dedicated to his relationship, but playing the part of the playboy was so ingrained that Pepper's continued presence had done nothing to curb his continuous flirting with anything that moved.

Tony settled into the couch, mentally going over how he was going to overcome his current difficulty in his daily life. Most things could be carried out by others, Happy would have to do all of the driving and the team would have to start working out contingency plans to fill in Iron Man's hole. Immediately designs started running through the inventor's head for plans to alter the suit to support his current situation. His brilliance was interrupted by a constant repetitive thwack.

Stark cracked one eye open to catch a yellow and purple blur whiz by his head to land in Barton's hand only to be redirected against another wall via ricochet off the bookshelf, coffee table and textbook left on the floor. He let out an audible sigh, hoping to convey his growing irritation at the repetitive noise.

Clint continued to fiddle with his arrow while entering configurations into his laptop, undeterred by his companion.

Thwack.

Tony ground his teeth together. It was just too much effort to get up and move, especially after his flight.

Thwack.

Stark cleared his throat, but Barton failed to glance in his direction.

Thwack.

Tony reached up and snatched the ball before it made its way gracefully back into the archer's hand. Clint looked up, his eyes betraying how long he had been staring at the screen. Stark held up the ball, erasing the traces of bewilderment on Barton's face.

"What are you doing?" Tony nodded towards the computer.

"Designs for some new arrows I want R and D to take a look at. The more specific I make my demands, the more likely I'll get something I can use. It doesn't hurt to have as much of the ground work done as possible; I might actually get the prototype back in a timely manner."

"Don't you usually squirrel away somewhere and do that? Like that apartment of yours you think I don't know about?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "I know you know about the apartment."

"I'll try not to be offended," mocked Tony. He understood the need to get away from the chaos that had become their lives and just exist in a space that was completely one's own and not property of Stark Industries.

"I think the Stockholm syndrome has kicked in," the archer offered conversationally. "Leaving has little appeal these days."

"Now I really don't know if I should be touched or insulted."

"Oh, you've always been _touched_ Stark."

"Well you know what they say about owning birds," posed Tony.

Barton's brow wrinkled slightly. "Put newspaper down?" he snorted.

"If they come back to you then they truly belong to you," Tony corrected with an evil smirk.

"I'm not your property Stark. Last time I checked I didn't have the Stark Industries logo tattooed to my ass," quipped Barton.

"When was the last time you checked?"

Their banter was interrupted by the alarm and JARVIS summoning the team to action. "Duty calls," offered Barton as he jumped up from the couch. He didn't say anything as Stark followed him into the elevator. Having been sidelined more than a few times himself, Clint understood needing to be included, so he wasn't going to be the one to remind Tony he wasn't exactly fit for duty at the moment. He'd let Steve be the one to enforce that reality; one of the benefits of not being the team leader.

* * *

"What's our status?" asked Captain America as he approached the group of SHIELD agents that had secured the scene. The rest of the Avengers trailed behind him, even Stark who managed to talk his way into joining the team under the provision of not suiting up.

One of the younger agents snapped to attention, going rigidly stiff in the presence of such an icon as the Captain. The agent in charge greeted them casually, having little interest in such fanfare. "Captain. Officially, we have ourselves a hostage situation," he offered.

"And unofficially?" interrupted Barton, stepping up next to Rogers.

"Some wannabe megalomaniac has delusions of world conquest and thinks he's going to achieve that by blowing the building all to hell with something he's lovingly referring to as the decimator. Catchy isn't it? Seriously I don't know what rock these whack jobs crawl out from," added the agent with a chuckle. "I must be getting close to retirement." Turning to his subordinates he tipped his head towards Hawkeye and added, "If we can turn this punk into a bona fide hero, there's hope we can turn you all into actual agents, now get to work." The conglomerate of newly minted agents scurried away like cockroaches exposed to light.

"Brody," smiled Clint, warm and familiar.

"Awe, I'm touched that you still remember my name. It's nice that you haven't forgotten all the little people now that you're a rock star," teased Rylan, slapping a hand on Clint's shoulder.

"What exactly are we up against Agent Brody," interjected Romanoff, all business.

"Oh, I missed you too, Natty." Agent Brody quickly turned and marched over to the open back door of a mobile command van and reached in to pull out a tablet.

Tony, who had managed to talk his way into coming to serve in a tech/moral support capacity, was glad he hadn't missed this. The pinched expression on the assassin's face or the way she dug her nails painfully into her folded arms at being called 'Natty' was hard to overlook. Stark winced in sympathy as he awkwardly maneuvered himself to almost press against Romanoff's side. He whispered loud enough for Banner, Thor and Rogers to hear, but not Barton who had wandered towards the van. "I called you Nat last week and you threatened to disembowel me with a spoon. Now I get you and Bird Boy have this weird, messy, unrequited love, soap opera thing going on, and Barton gets certain privileges with nicknames, but this guy? I mean I have to admire the set of balls he must have, but how come he gets a dismemberment free pass?"

Without batting an eye, she grit out, "He's only alive because Barton wishes it."

"Guys, we have more important things to focus on right now," injected Rogers, leading the charge to catch up to Barton and Brody.

Tony waited until everyone had moved passed him before tapping his comm. connection to his AI. "JARVIS, let's pull up everything SHIELD has to offer on our scene agent in charge, shall we. There's a story there and I can't come up with the appropriate taunting if I don't have all the facts."

"Very well sir," sighed JARVIS with a hint of something that sounded like a frustrated parent caving to a stubborn child.

"We've got the building surround and the ground floor secure but the bomb is up on the sixtieth floor. They have enough fire power that we could use the extra hands to secure the device and round up perpetrators," explained Brody, pointing to the diagram of the building.

"Thor, you take the roof and work your way down. They have a helicopter up there, let's make sure they don't have it to escape. Dr Banner, I want you with a SHIELD team covering the south side of the building in case they try and make a run for it. Barton, I want you on the sixtieth floor of the neighboring building, get a line of sight in case we need to take a target out in a hurry. Widow, you and I will start at the bottom and work our way up to their strong hold. Brody, you're teams will support us," dictated Captain America. "And Stark, stay in the van and out of the way."

The team accepted their order and hurried to get to their positions, except Tony, who started to protest, but quickly switched to grumbling to himself as he hobbled towards the van.

"You guys have fun. Tony, listen to the sitter, and Brody, make sure he's in bed by nine and try not to kill him," called the archer.

"Why don't you go annoy some bad guys," snarked Stark, turning around to glare at Clint. "Oh hey," he added reaching into his pocket, "here's your kiddie toy back." He tossed the rubber ball at Barton who caught it with a smile before tucking it away in one of his many pockets.

Begrudgingly, the billionaire climbed into the back of the van. Tony Stark did not do sidelines, but he wasn't going to take time away from saving the day to argue about it. No, he'd tactfully wait until everyone was distracted then weasel his way into the fight. Short of that, he might be able to commandeer control of the ops van and control everything and everyone that way and if all else failed, he could work Agent Brody over for information on Hawkeye and Black Widow: the early years.

Tony sat in the back of the van, idly twirling a pen he pilfered from the agent sitting next to him, only half watching the video feeds and half creepily staring at the agent who was trying to convey their irritation at his presence without actually saying anything. Watching the team, they looked like a well oiled machine that Stark would lovingly tend to in his workshop. It was a far cry from the chaos and excitement of being there in person. Tony didn't like it at all.

* * *

Clint hit the emergency stairwell taking the stairs quickly and efficiently. He was just about to move past the forty-eighth floor when he caught sight of an armed man moving about the hall. The small window in the stairwell door only offered a limited glimpse to the immediate area, forcing Clint to gently crack the door open for a better view.

"You two go up to fifty and make sure they're ready to go," ordered one of the men dressed in black tactical gear. The group of men was dressed similar to the ones in the neighboring building. "The rest of us will head to the basement."

Clint waited until the men heading for the basement passed the stairwell door before emerging behind them. It was ten to one and the archer might have felt sorry for them had the team not needed him elsewhere. Silently with his bow, he dispatched the men before most of them could turn around; it was almost like child's play, and entirely too easy.

Pulling one of his shafts free from its target, Barton clicked his radio on. "Um, guys, I think you missed a bunch Brody, there's a whole contingent in this building. A couple were going up, I'm going to follow. Send a team in to check out the basement, that was their rally point."

"Sending in a team for support," replied Brody. "Keep us informed."

Clint took a quick glance around trying to fill in some of the blanks that were suggesting they were woefully unprepared for this engagement. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he pushed down his resignation and took to the stairs once more. He stealthily hit the fiftieth floor, slinking around corners and clearing rooms until he caught sight of the familiar black uniforms.

Barton tapped his comm. "I've got three hostiles. Looks like they're standing around some sort of device," he reported. Wayward lackeys were never a good thing. It tended to lead to counterproductive surprises for those on the side of right.

"Can you tell what it is?" asked Agent Brody from the command van.

"The main component looks like an SI model 38-16A-7." Clint's voice was cool while the tension in his body was anything but. His bow at the ready, all he had to do was uncurl his fingers, a simple action for something that was going to produce deadly results. Fortunately for them, they had set up some kind of energy field protecting them from the rest of the world. "Looks like we have a second bomb to contend with."

In the control van, Stark sat up straight, suddenly more interested in a battle he'd been sidelined from. "One of mine?" he sputtered, without really needing an answer as to the origin of the bomb or its capabilities.

Clint rolled his eyes at Tony's outburst on the comms. "Yeah, can't tell what they've added to it though."

"Give me eyes on it," ordered the billionaire, cutting off Brody before he could utter a symbol. He had to bite down on his intrigue; half-wits attempting to mess with perfection was always good for a laugh, but the situation wasn't a recovery op after the fact, this was right now and the potential to harm innocent people, never mind a friend, was very high.

"Can't get close enough to get a decent look. They've got an energy field protecting the room." The gentle buzz was unmistakable and at the moment the only thing keeping the three men from getting better acquainted with Hawkeye's arrow. "Hold on," snapped the archer.

A fourth man appeared in the hallway, pausing in front of the field with a squirming child tightly in his grasp. Clint knew what protocol would dictate; wait for a better opportunity to secure the main objective. He also knew they were about to put a kid in a room with what was likely an enhanced bomb and his ticket was now or never.

Putting his arrow back in his quiver and securing his bow, he sprung into action the second they dropped the field to let their companion in. Bolting forward with enough speed, he dropped to the ground, sliding across the floor, clearing the field mere seconds before they brought it back up. Before Clint came to a stop, he pulled his gun out of his side holster and put one between the eyes of the first hostile in his path.

Barton was able to take out another one before the remaining two managed to piece together what was happening and bring their own weapons to bear. With a roll, the archer put himself behind the structure the bomb was sitting on. He sat there, gun held close and tight, listening for any clues on his targets' specific locations when a hail storm of bullets descended upon him. "Damn idiots are shooting at the bomb," he bit out on the comm.

"Hang on, I'll redirect someone to your position," advised Brody, before turning around to see why Stark was making a bunch of noise. Covering the mic he asked the flailing inventor, "What the hell are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" snapped Tony, reaching , fingers out stretched as far as possible to try and grab one of his crutches that someone had thoughtlessly moved just out of reach. "Hawkeye needs help."

"And what are you going to do about it? You can barely walk, let alone fight."

Waving off the observation, as accurate as it might be, Stark pulled out his phone. "JARVIS, I need a suit," commanded the inventor.

"Sir?" replied the AI hesitantly.

"I'll make adjustments on the fly, hell, I'll go without a boot on that foot if I have to, just send me something!" The words were more desperate than he wanted them to be. Looking down at his cast with utter distain, a million ideas flashed through his head; none of them would be able to help him assist Hawkeye at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint grunted as a splatter of sparks descended upon him. He bit his lip, a frown creasing his forehead, before he leaned around the pedestal to take his next shot. His aim was true, leaving one last hostile: the one using the kid as a human shield.

"Throw your weapon out or I'll put one in the kid!" demanded the man.

"Do that, and it will be the last thing you do," countered Barton, checking his back up gun and tucking it behind his back. He weighed his options as he listened to the kid struggle under the gunman's grasp.

"Maybe this'll expedite your decision," called the gunman, before a series of clicks and beeps sang the activation of the device above Clint's head and an automated countdown sequence initiated. "Whatcha gonna do now hero?"

Clint peered around the bomb. The tell tale discolor of the energy field was gone, giving the gunman a clear exit with both the kid and the detonator. "Awe screw it," muttered Barton, sliding his gun across the floor towards the gunman. Slowly he stood up with his hands raised in a nonthreatening manner. "Now why don't you let the kid go and call it a day?"

"This little shit's my ticket out of here, but you don't have to worry about that," countered the gunman. "We were aiming for Stark, but I guess you'll do." The gunman smiled as he moved the gun away from the kid and towards Hawkeye.

The moment the gun cleared the small boy's head, Clint dropped his hands, pulling free his own backup gun tucked behind his back. Three shots were fired. One in the gunman's shoulder, another in his knee and the last one belonging to the thug himself, went wide. The target fell to the floor with a cry of agony, releasing his hold on the child.

Barton had been all fluid motion, stepping around the bomb towards his target, gun in hand. Satisfied that the enemy wasn't going to be doing anything threatening in the immediate future, Clint pocketed both weapons. In a flash he was by the kid, hands searching for any sign of injury. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

The kid shook his head frantically, visibly shaken. His eyes were wide as saucers, fixed on the injured man and the rapidly spreading pool of blood on the floor.

"Don't look bud," whispered Clint, cupping the kid's face and burying it in his chest. Carefully he picked the boy up and walked out into the hall. Placing him down gently so his charge was on his feet, Clint knelt down so they were at eye level. "What's your name?"

The boy worried his lip. "Benjamin." It sounded more like a question than a definitive answer, as the child shank in on himself.

"Benjamin, I'm Clint, and here's what I need you to do," stated Barton, his voice even and calm but with enough authority to penetrate the fog of shock enveloping the child. "I want you to take the elevator down to the main floor. There's going to be men in suits there. Don't be scared, they're going to take you out of the building, alright."

Ben's eyes perked up. "Just like my dad? He had to wear a suit to work today."

Barton ruffled the kid's hair. "Just like your dad."

"You sure they're going to help?" asked the small boy.

"Yeah," assured the archer. Pointing to the SHIELD emblem on his uniform he said, "You see this symbol, that means they're the good guys." Pulling a small pocketknife out of his boot, he began to cut out the badge from the fabric covering his armor. He then pressed it into the boy's shaking hands. "You show them that, and nothing's going to happen to you. I promise. Now get out here."

The kid didn't need to be told twice. With the badge held tight in his hot little hands he took off towards the elevator. Clint tapped his comm. device. "Did you catch that Brody? One civilian coming down the elevator."

"Copy that Barton."

Clint strode over to the armed bomb, a foreboding feeling welling in his gut. All the best training SHIELD had to offer, a million simulations and a couple dozen live disarmings under his belt and he never lost the sheer terror that accompanied staring at a live bomb. "Stark, what the hell is this addition?" he asked, making sure his phone camera got a clear shot.

There was a pause before Stark came back on the mic. The inventor made some non intelligent noise followed by the rapid clatter on a keyboard. "I can't tell from here," he confessed. "But just hang on I'm going to come to you."

"You're going to what?" interrupted Rogers, cutting into their conversation.

"I don't think there's going to be time for that Stark. Genius here armed the damn thing. I have like seven minutes."

"I'll be there," insisted Stark.

"Brody is the building cleared?" asked Rogers desperately, in hopes of providing Barton with a backup plan.

Regretfully Brody joined the radio conversation. "No. There's a daycare on the fiftieth floor that a team of hostiles are guarding. There are forty-three children in there that we haven't been able to clear yet."

"Can you disarm it, Clint," chimed in Romanoff.

"Hold on a second," snapped the archer. He pulled his gun, pointing it at the thug who had propped himself against the wall while holding his shoulder. "What's this do?" he growled, pointing to the mystery device attached to the already highly deadly device.

"Fuck you," replied the thug.

Clint released the safety off his weapon with a click. "What kind of force can this energy field withstand?"

"Go ahead," snarled the man, "pull the trigger."

Barton thought about it for a second. The sheer satisfaction of wiping the smug smirk of the man's face was tempting but it wouldn't change the situation and offer nothing but a split second of personal satisfaction that would taint his soul. With a frustrated sigh, he began to examine the extra surprise thrown his way. "Stark, what's this thing been repurposed to do?"

Tony looked over the video feed and scans Barton was providing and even with JARVIS in his ear, the inventor was at a loss. He could figure it out, that wasn't the question, but in six minutes without being there? He wanted to he could figure it out, hell, he knew every inch of the bomb component of the device, but this wasn't the time or place for an ego trip. "I… I got nothing," he confessed in a low voice. "But hold on I'll be right there. JARVIS, how long till I have a suit?"

"Brody, clear that daycare!" ordered Romanoff, as though her sheer will could force the situation the resolve itself.

"Hawkeye, just hang on, Thor and I are coming," added Captain America.

"Can you still disable the explosive component?" demanded Black Widow, foregoing any attempt at remaining calm and collected.

An eternity passed in silence before Hawkeye came back over the comm. "Not without risking setting this thing off. Brody the kids?"

"The agents are moving in now, there's no way they're going to get them out of the building in time."

"Thor, can you help get the kids out?" asked Rogers.

"Aye. Regrettably not all at once," apologized the god, rushing to offer any aid that might ease the situation.

"Barton, Thor's going to try and get the kids, you have four minutes to get out of there. You should take it," suggested Brody, as helpless as the rest of them.

Clint looked at the timer boldly counting down the seconds; he didn't spare a single glance at the door. Looking back at the thug bleeding out in the corner, he asked, "Can the field withstand the blast?"

The gunman spat out a blob of blood and glared at Hawkeye like a hungry wolf. "You gonna take that chance, hero?"

"Stark, can it?"

"Based on my calculation, it would contain the blast from my design. I can't guarantee it will work now." The telltale metal clicking foretold Iron Man's suiting up. "I'll come, I'll make sure it can."

"At the very least it'll give Thor the extra time to grab those kids, even if it doesn't hold for long," added Brody.

"That's what we're doing then." Hawkeye walked over to the dead gunmen who still had the remote for the field clenched in his hand. Prying it out of the man's hand, he stepped over the threshold of the field. "I guess this is where we say goodbye," offered Hawkeye. The thug just snarled in reply.

He pressed the button; a sharp crackle filling the air but the field didn't activate. He tried again. Nothing. "Son of a bitch," he huffed, marching towards the generator. Clint wanted to bash his head against the wall as he took in all the bullet holes in the device. Not ready to throw in the towel just yet, he pried off the access panel to take a look at the wiring within. A sliver of hope plunged through his heart at the sight of a backup switch. Pressing down on it the field flickered to life.

Hawkeye's hope was short lived. The button failed to lock in place, deactivating the field the second he moved his hand away. With a minute and a half left, he was out of options. "I don't suppose you want to come over here and hold this down for me, do you?" he asked the gunman. His companion dutifully flipped him off. "I didn't think so."

Clint was oddly okay with what was about to happen, the team wouldn't be but he found himself floating in a sea of calm. Nodding to himself he placed his hand back on the button and opened his comm. line. "There's a back up to initiate the field but it's on dead man switch. I'm going to keep the field up. Get those kids out of here."

The command van was deathly silent in the wake of Barton's admission. Even Rogers and Romanoff who had been working so hard to make it from the first building to the one Barton was in paused in their efforts just to look at each other. No one said it, but everyone knew.

"I'm suited up Barton," chimed in Iron Man as he burst from the van. "We'll rig it so it stays up without you there." There was panic in his voice; the universe was moving at its own accord and nothing he had to offer was going to derail its course.

"Tony, stop," Clint said, low and even as he sat down next to the generator. Peering over at the bomb, he took in the time; his sharp eyes missing nothing. "There's less than a minute. You can't do anything."

"That's not true. You're not a genius, you don't know. I could…" protested Iron Man, only to be cut off by Black Widow.

"Clint?" It was heavy with a thousand questions.

"It's going to be alright Natasha, you'll see. I'm going to keep trying to disarm this thing but I have to keep the field up." His lips were making promises he wasn't sure he could keep, but he'd say anything if only it could put hope back in her eyes for a moment.

"I'm coming." He wasn't going to say it, but she knew what he was doing. If someone was going to stay and hold that button till the end, it was going to be her, not him. Hawkeye wasn't mean to go out like that and it was the least she could do to make up for the things she had done in her life. It would be a drop in the bucket of what Natasha owed Clint but it was something she had to do for him.

"Keep her there Cap," pleaded Barton. "Don't let her in the building!"

"Are you sure, Clint?" asked Rogers, not wanting to lose a friend but knowing exactly what that moment felt like.

"Someone's got to do it Steve. Nata…a I'm….rry." The radio filled with static, garbling his words until he lost all contact with the people most important to him. That was probably the worst part. He couldn't properly apologize to Natasha for breaking his promise to her.

The numbers of the clock didn't care if his loose ends were addressed; they just continued to count down. Clint let out a long breath and as the timer reached the last three seconds, he closed his eyes.

The air surrounding the building was filled with indecision. Everyone needed to move to do something, but no one knew what to do. They could fight almost any enemy but time just wasn't one they could defeat. As a bright green light poured out of the floor all eyes were glued to and the building structure remained intact, a little piece of everyone died.


	3. Chapter 3

"Tony, we need to go or we'll be late," pleaded Pepper. She had started trying to corral the billionaire for the last two hours, popping out onto the deck at different points while she got herself dressed. The only acknowledgement she ever got was Tony taking another sip out of his glass.

The bar was quickly becoming lined with empty bottles of Bourbon, but Stark showed no signs of stopping. Pepper had awoken that morning alone, only the cold sheets on Tony's side of the bed to greet her. She was surprised to find him perched out on the balcony, feet dangling over the edge in the spot that Clint seemed to haunt late at night when he had had trouble sleeping. She had tried to get him to talk, but the man seemed to clench his teeth tighter at each attempt until Pepper relented and proceeded to get ready for the funeral.

Tony sat there looking out at New York but not really seeing anything. The world once so large and full of possibility now seemed small and limited. He'd lost count of how many drinks he'd had sometime before nine am that morning, a feat not done since his earliest partying days, when his rebellious streak had needed an early morning send off. He was shooting for numbing blindness this time though, and while the glass was just a formality, he couldn't seem to let himself drink straight from the bottle. He thought the view might help him, a spot favored by his former colleague; that it might ignite his rage and burn away the last remnants of self respect and self preservation that kept him from imploding completely.

He had failed. Truth was he had been failing all along, he just didn't realize it until the collateral damage was too much to ignore anymore. His friends, this ragtag group of damaged people that put the fun in dysfunctional were all dead, they just didn't know it yet. Pepper, he'd kill her with a broken heart if some megalomaniac didn't get to her in some desperate bid to get to him. Bruce would just worry himself to death; only half the man's worry was for Tony, the other half for the green problem that Tony took too much pleasure in trying to convince the doctor wasn't a problem. So if the math held up, that one wouldn't entirely be Tony's fault, but any hand in it was more than he could stand. Natasha he'd already killed, just as surely as he had Clint when he failed to figure out how to disarm some two-bit scientist's bastardization of one of his bombs. A bird and a spider with one stone; Barton wasn't the only one capable of amazing shots. Thor, Thor was a god and thus nothing Tony could do could actually take the guy out, but it would be someone else designing the weapon and Stark the catalyst for it. Finally Rogers; the Stark name had already failed to save the man from his icy resting place the first time. Apparently brilliance wasn't the only thing he inherited from Howard. No, that virtuous bastard would probably throw himself on a grenade for Tony and say it was for the greater good. What greater good was Tony really capable of?

"Tony, I have your suit laid out for you," called Pepper from the doorway. The billionaire waved his hand in lieu of turning around and acknowledging her, the ice clinking loudly against his glass. She let out a sigh and carried on making herself presentable for the afternoon's solemn affair.

Everyone was in such a hurry to get to the funeral. Pepper had been fluttering nonstop with everything from last minute arrangements, to helping Thor with his tie when Jane had been at a loss. Steve had been pacing since before the sun had even thought of coming up and Bruce had been staring at the same page in his novel since he gave up tossing and turning around five am. JARVIS has been keeping tabs on all of them, Tony insisted. Well, everyone except Natasha. Tony could take solace in not being the only coward on the team. Romanoff had fled the moment Clint died and hadn't been back since. The inventor would have been concerned, but he was fairly certain Bruce actually had tabs on the wayward assassin. All of them in a hurry to bury an empty casket, and wasn't that the rub, Tony thought.

The team couldn't even lick their wounds properly, SHIELD having withheld the body for research purposes under the guise of safety concerns regarding exposure. Barton had given his life to save forty-three children, none of which would ever know his real name, and the guy wasn't even going to make it to his final resting place. Tony had half a mind to go storm the castle and steal the body, just so he could say he at least did that for the guy, but that notion disappeared under the third bottle of scotch with the theory of it being obscene.

Truthfully, he wasn't brave enough to see the body; seeing made it real. If he could just pretend then maybe Barton would come strolling in the door, big goofy grin on his face and the declaration that he was the reigning king of practical jokes. Stranger things had happened, would that be too much to ask for?

A soft knock at the door pulled Pepper's eyes away from getting ready. Bruce was standing there, dressed in a very elegant suit.

"You look very nice Bruce," offered Pepper, her voice worn from crying for the last few days as she straightened his tie for him. If was a habit to fuss over Tony before important events and a skewed tie triggered her mothering instinct no matter who was donning it.

"Thanks," he replied, his voice barely a whisper as though if they were too loud it would shatter the illusion that this was all a dream and any second they could wake up to find things just as they should be, that their family would be whole once more. "Happy's waiting downstairs for us, the others have already left."

"Alright," she nodded. Turning back to Stark, who had yet to move from his spot she said, "We really need to get going Tony. Everyone's waiting for us."

"Nobody's stopping you," he snapped before tossing back the rest of his drink. He glared at both of them as he swung his legs back over the railing before heading back to the bar to grab another bottle.

"I think you've had enough," chastised Potts, the edges of frustration and anger begin to show.

"I'm a big boy Pep, think I know when I've reached my limit." He emphasized his point by waving the refilled glass in the air dramatically, having to lean a little more on the table than he'd like anyone to know.

Banner moved to put himself between the two, the tension picking up a few notches as the couple stared down one another. "Come on Pepper," he started, placing gentle hands on her shoulders to turn her towards the door. Glancing back at Stark over his shoulder he added, "We need to go. _Someone_ should be there to honor him."

"If you change your mind, I'll make sure there's a car waiting downstairs for you," advised the CEO before the elevator doors slid shut taking her and Bruce to their destination.

Stark just waved them off as he took another long sip of his drink. The others could get dressed up in their monkey suits and sit around while someone, who had never even met Barton, rambled on about Clint's accomplishments and the hole he was leaving behind, like anyone really had a clue. Sure there'd be lots of people there sharing in the emotions of the occasion, pretending that they were the man's best friends and close confidants, but many of them would be hard pressed to pick him out of a line up if it wasn't for his notoriety as an Avenger. Besides, what was Tony going to add? A target for everyone's hate? It seemed inappropriate for Barton's killer to be in attendance and in the shadow of that failure, not going to the funeral wasn't even going to measure.

* * *

Rain clouds gathered in the sky, failing in their promise of rain but adding murky ambiance to an already dismal day. The setting for the team's final goodbye was a small church hidden on the outskirts of town. It paled in comparison to the grandeur of the soul they were there to mourn but it was away from prying eyes and with the fake funeral Fury had ordered to draw the spectacle of the press and civilians, it was quiet.

Rogers parked his bike in front giving a weary smile to Hill who was waiting at the door. With trepidation he climbed the steps offering a small nod in greeting. Losing someone never got easier, a piece of you died with them, Steve wondered how many more pieces he had left to lose.

"Captain," acknowledged Hill. She had traded her uniform for a black designer suit that still conveyed authority while respecting the tone of the gathering.

"I see Fury's pseudo funeral is having the desired effect."

Hill offered her own half hearted smile in return. It was a catch twenty-two situation. Barton was worthy of the spectacle the world could offer in morning their hero but to protect those he considered friends, the people he valued, anonymity was essential. "The others are already inside and they're about to begin."

"Where's Coulson?" Coulson had been one of the team's defining moments. Considering what he had done for the Avengers, it wasn't even a drop in the pond for he's done for Barton and Romanoff. If the Avengers were a family, then Coulson was protective older brother. Having a hard time dealing with the circumstances surrounding his 'return', Phil had made the decision to take some time and figure things out. It was long after that, that Fury had pressed him into service in matters unrelated to the Avengers as a welcome to the world initiation. It seemed important that the man be made aware of Clint's passing, even if he had experienced it once before.

Hill shook her head. "Fury didn't tell him." Maria looked regretful about the situation even if she did support Fury's decision for information blackout.

With a deep breath, Steve squared his shoulders and pushed the church door open. It felt much heavier than it actually was, the effort required to move it enormous. Inside was covered in flowers and candles spread out through the wooden interior. A large centerpiece was covering the top of a cherry wood coffin that also displayed a picture of the archer. It was cropped photo of a candid shot, an easy smile gracing Clint's lips. Seeing a personal photo instead of Barton's standard SHIELD ID photo somehow made the whole thing more real. It wasn't a soldier they were burying, it was a friend.

The church was full, familiar faces from SHIELD and some that weren't. Those that really mattered were seated up front; Jane wrapped up in Thor's arms, Bruce and Pepper leaning against one another seated at the end of the first row, Fury stiff and stoic next to them. Absences didn't go unnoticed either, Tony and Natasha both out of sight. Steve suspected if Romanoff was going to be there, she would stay out of sight in a desperate bid to maintain her cold stoicism that might crack under the warmth of love and loss. It was Tony's absence that made Steve want to punch someone, namely Stark himself.

He knew the billionaire was taking the archer's death particularly hard. The team didn't need their burden added to by Stark setting himself up for a train wreck. They all wanted to crawl into a dark hole and wait for the ache to pass, but things were still required of them. People needed them, they needed each other.

Rogers took his place between Bruce and Thor just as the first speaker reached the podium. Leaning close to Bruce he whispered, "Where's Tony?"

"He wouldn't come," Banner whispered back. He lowered his voice even more so Pepper wouldn't be able to hear and added, "It's probably for the best. Even if he was sober enough to stand he wouldn't be able to stop himself from making a spectacle."

Steve scowled but bit his tongue. His team was falling apart, slipping through his fingers and there was nothing he could do about it. Losing Bucky had been like losing a part of himself but there wasn't anybody left to feel the loss the way Steve had. Both of their families were dead and it had just been the two of them in the war. The rest of the unit felt sorrow but they hadn't known Bucky since diapers. Rogers had been alone to drown his grief. Sitting there, looking at the anguish on his friend's faces compounded the pain and loss. He wasn't the only one hurting, they all were and they need to stick together to get through it. They weren't together in this without Natasha, Tony and Phil.

* * *

What daylight that managed to find its way through the clouds was bright compared to the hushed candle light of the church. Everyone found themselves squinting as they exited the service to congregate in haphazard groups around the front stoop. The remnants of the team huddled together receiving condolences from the agents it attendance.

Fury stood next to the Captain, lacking a fraction of his usual confidence. Steve hadn't expected tears like Pepper or Bruce shed, or open grief that Thor displayed, but it was still a defining moment to witness a crack of humanity in the Director's leather clad armor. Displaying an emotion outside the clandestine or righteous Fury range didn't forgive all sins.

Keeping his voice even and low to maintain a certain level of privacy, Rogers asked, "Why didn't you bring Coulson here?"

"We can proceed with the burial portion of the service in fifteen minutes. My agents are in place," informed the Director, all business and formality as though dictating a performance schedule and not the loss of a comrade.

Rogers clenched his hands into fists. This was not the time and the place for some half hearted attempt at conversational distraction. With more bit and edge to his voice, he repeated, "Why isn't Coulson here?"

"Agent Coulson is currently engaged in an op and I'm not prepared to jeopardize that for him to make an appearance here." Sensing Rogers' demeanor change for the worse he added, "Yes, Coulson and Barton have a long history together but what we can't forget, is at the end of the day it's not really Coulson's Barton we're burying today."

Fury turned to face the growling hostility head on. "I don't have to justify myself to you Capta…"

Steve let his fist fly. It was one more dig and he couldn't let it continue. Fury staggered back under the force of the blow, his hand coming up to wipe away the blood from his lip. As one the gathered SHIELD agents pulled their weapons aiming them at the assembled Avengers. Thor stood at the ready, prepared to stand alongside his teammate against those that should be allies. Bruce put himself between Pepper and Jane, and the guns pointed in their general direction.

Fury raised his hand to halt his people from making another move. Straightening up, he took the one step between him and the Captain, one part impressed at the kid's balls, one part pissed off.

Rogers didn't relent under Fury's steel gaze. "The _team_ , and only the team, will meet in the cemetery in two hours. You're not invited." Steve didn't wait for any argument, pushing past Fury and marching over to his bike.

Bruce jogged after him, leaving the women in Thor's protective shadow. "Is this what we're doing here?" he asked, wanting the reassurance that Steve had thought out all the repercussions to such a bold move.

"Cemetery, two hours. Make sure Natasha's there," he ordered before starting the bike and racing away from the church.


	4. Chapter 4

"JARVIS, where is he?" demanded Steve, storming through the door from the garage.

"Sir has locked himself in the lab," reported the AI, concern bleeding through his programming.

"Right." Rogers hit the stairs forgoing the elevator. With all the pent up frustration at the situation and adrenaline from speaking to Fury the time would be comparable, taking the steps two at a time in a need to move, to do something.

He reached the lab to find the door unlocked; the silent and dark atmosphere the complete opposite of the usual Tony Stark presence. There was just enough glow for the Captain to see in front of him but not to make out any details of anything in the lab. Even the bots that whirled and rolled around, doing Tony's biding were silent, and if Steve believed they could possess a soul, would say they too were depressed.

Sitting at the darkened table was Stark, his back to Steve. A vast collection of empty bottles covered the table, surrounding the glowing diagram of a hauntingly familiar mass. It was a sobering moment for the Captain. He had been faced with the open and apparent grief of Bruce, Thor, Pepper and Jane that it was hard to dig beneath the drunkenness to see Tony's ache. The Stark swagger that was always present and rubbing Steve the wrong way had been covering the billionaire's latest wound. Rogers knew Tony felt Barton's death as much as the rest of them, but didn't believe that excused the man from supporting his teammates in this time of sorrow, except perhaps Tony needed them more than they needed him right now.

All Steve's irritation melted away. Speaking as though he was addressing a scared child that needed rescuing from the monsters under the bed, he called, "Tony?"

There was no response, no indication that the inventor had even heard Steve. He just sat there, staring at the diagram.

Steve tried again. "You missed the service, Tony."

"You guys put the fun in funeral?"

"Don't," warned Rogers.

Tony gave a harsh snort. "Here lies Clint Barton," he called out in mock sermon, turning around to finally look at Steve, bottle firmly clenched in his hand. "But not really, cause Fury won't give us a body." The words were slightly slurred as he wobbled on his stool. "Stand up guy, always willing to give himself to the cause, no matter the toll, and look what that fucking got him? Befriended few and trusted even fewer, and in the end he trusted the wrong fucking person, cause I'm the one that got him killed! You're right I should have gone."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out the replica of the bomb displayed on Stark's desk. Tony was trying to pick a fight to alienate himself from everyone and Rogers wasn't willing to rise to the bait. Maintaining his cool he said, "It was a nice funeral."

"Pepper did that," corrected Tony. The Stark fortune may have been bankrolling the funeral, but Tony never found the courage to actually get involved directly. "She fixes everything, unlike me."

"It wasn't your fault Tony," insisted the Captain. Logically he knew it wasn't his fault but there was that small angry part that couldn't help but notice the SI logo in bold type on the bomb casing.

"Of course it was!" Stark jumped off of his stool, getting right in the blonde's face. His arms shot out in dramatic gesture. "The bomb was a piece of Stark tech."

Steve looped his thumbs into his belt. Fury deserved what he got but Tony was looking for someone to punish him; it wasn't going to be Steve. "I did this _Captain_ ," ranted Stark, mere inches from Steve's face. "And you know what? It's going to happen again. Do you have any idea how many weapons SI 'misplaced' over the years? God, I couldn't even trust my closest confidant."

"That wasn't your fault, Tony. You weren't the one selling weapons to the enemy."

"Yeah but it was _my_ company Rogers. I created the things that do this to people. This is me Rogers, you're the hero. You're the hero, so why didn't you save him?" asked Stark, shoving Steve hard.

The thought had crossed Steve's mind before. Things would have been different if he'd gone to check things out instead of sending Clint. It was his job to look out for the team, to make sure what happened to Bucky didn't happen to anyone else.

Tears were burning at Tony's eyes. "You want to be the great Captain America?" The words were dripping with hate and booze. "You should have saved him from me. You should save them all from me."

Tony went to shove Steve again, but instead of just taking it, he grabbed the billionaire's arms and pulled him tight to his chest. He felt Tony sag against him and the tears start to fall freely. It was a rare sign of vulnerability from the cocky man that added to the weight of the whole mess. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Not much," muttered Stark between ragged breaths. "I switched to bourbon. Bourbon always makes me cry."

Steve sat Stark back down on the stool. "The team's meeting at the cemetery and we're _all_ going to be there," he informed.

Tony wiped his hand against his nose. "No." He tried to swivel around on the stool to turn back to his analysis of the bomb, but Steve grabbed his shoulder.

"We're doing this for Clint and you're going, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and drag you there."

Tony looked like he wanted to fight it but thought better about it. "It just doesn't seem enough, you know?"

"I know."

* * *

The room was bleak, barren and cold, not unlike the façade Natasha had been putting out to the rest of the world. Her uniform offered no comfort from the cold as white wisps of air took flight from her lips. She was numb to everything anyways; the discomfort of standing in a glorified freezer wasn't going to deter her. She wanted to step closer but an unnatural fear held her in place just a few feet from the edge of the table. The Black Widow never showed fear, but she was sure that if she got too close, the tiny ember of hope that there had been some mistake, some error on a technicians part, would be snuffed out by the very cold that maintained the illusion of death. If she never laid eyes on the corpse personally, she could spend her life pretending that Barton wasn't dead, that he was just off on a long term mission, that they just always missed bumping into one another in the halls at SHIELD. If there was no proof then hope could live.

Natasha swallowed, trying to work some moisture back into her mouth, to redirect her body's fluids away from forming tears that she stubbornly refused to shed. The painful pressure in her chest was growing, demanding some sort of release from the confines of her cool exterior. Shakily, she took one giant step forward, and then another until she was standing next to the table. Her breath froze in her throat, setting it on fire. She had seen her fair share of dead bodies in her life, but none had had this effect on her before.

Clint's skin had taken on an unhealthy blue tinge, a further reminder that the stillness of the body was the onset of something permanent and final. He had come to despise the color blue after Loki used him to destroy everything he had worked so hard for, and now even in death, it was some cruel joke, like maybe the demented god had won. Natasha reached forward, resting her hand on his, seeking comfort where none could be given. It was so cold and un-human. Hands that had held various weapons with grace and power, offered comfort in her darkest hours, reduced to nothing but pale blue, stiff nothingness.

Natasha just stared at the lifeless body before her, waiting for the joke to end, the nightmare to dissolve into reality, but as the minutes passed, that hope died as well. He didn't look like death. There were no gashes and scars depicting a fall in battle, just lax features and stillness. Bombs were messy and destructive, but this one had been transformed from ultimate destruction to the simple elimination of one soul. It made it worse somehow, to have a body so pristine and intact instead of the decimated remains that one would be thankful the person was spared from; this just emphasized what was stolen.

Her frown wrinkled her porcelain beauty that served as her mask to the world to convey a youthfulness experience wouldn't allow her to have. She had buried many, some she liked, some she didn't, but Clint always came back. The world suddenly felt so large and terrifying. She was alone now, in a way she hadn't realized she could be. The Red Room had taught her how to be a perfect killing machine, solitary, in need of nothing and no one. But some degenerate, disgraced circus performer had changed all that. For the first time in her life, someone saw not who or what she was but what she could be, what she wanted to be, and risked everything to give her the chance to be more than what she was. No matter what, no matter how far apart they were, she always knew Barton would have her back, even if he didn't agree with her. The safety net was gone; Natasha would have to fly on her own.

The thought made her angry. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. "You promised," she bit out. "You promised!" she repeated a little louder, rage finding her voice. "How dare you go back on your word and be so selfish as to leave me here alone. Hot traitorous tears that curled their way down her face splashing against Barton's cold skin but still the man did not move. He wasn't going to come back from this.

"Tasha." It was a whisper but in the aching silence, it might as well have been a scream.

Romanoff tensed, slipping her game face back on. Part of her didn't want to turn around, afraid that what she heard wasn't true.

"Natasha."

She turned around, zeroing in on who would dare step in on her moment of anguish. Disappointment rippled over her face. "Bruce? I thought I heard Cl…" Natasha brought her hand up to remove all evidence of any tears that had defied her. "What are you doing here?"

"You missed the service," Bruce informed, looking around the room nervously. There was something about being around dead bodies that felt like an intrusion. Helpless, no longer able to speak for themselves, witnessing such vulnerability was a trespass. Natasha just stared at him blankly like the words just didn't have meaning. "Cap wants us to be at the cemetery, as a team for one final goodbye."

"I'm not… I can't…" started Romanoff, putting her back to him.

"Steve kind of punched out Fury, so he expects us to be there."

Natasha bit her lip. Being there was the right thing to do, not for Captain America but for Clint. She just didn't know if she was ready to be there. "I'll be right with you, I just need a minute. Alone."

Banner nodded, silently taking his leave to wait outside the door. This wasn't something he neither was prepared nor should witness.

She stood there for a moment, searing the horrific image in her brain to somehow convince her heart of the truth of it all. "I guess this is goodbye," she choked out. Leaning over the body, she placed a tender chaste kiss on his lips. It was a moment she didn't want to let go, like walking away was a betrayal of everything they should have had. With nothing on the other side of that kiss, the fact that she had missed their opportunity by holding back to protect herself from this very moment didn't spare her from this painful end.

Swallowing back the sob that wanted to tear her apart, she headed for the door. She was almost there when every instinct she had honed proclaimed there was someone in the room. Her head snapped around to take in the quiet emptiness of the morgue. Her eyes settled in the corner, desperately searching for who was there. It was a spot Clint would have chosen to settle, a place he would perch at to observe the interactions of people in the room, but the corner was empty; there was no one there, nor would there be. Reconciling that her imagination was going to be toying with her for some time, she walked out of the room, leaving Barton for the last time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Two Weeks Later**

"JARVIS, start the clock," ordered Tony, grabbing a screwdriver off the table.

"Whenever you're ready, sir," responded the AI.

He squinted his reddened and tired eyes at the rebuilt model of the device recovered from the building. With a nod, he sucked in a breath before attacking the bomb. With deft fingers he removed the access panel and began the sequence to disarm it. It was rebuilt to spec, taking in account the damage done by the gunman's careless aim, minus the ability to actually explode. It was exactly what Barton would have faced.

"Done!" he declared, dropping the tool back on the counter. The ding of metal hitting metal echoed through the lab, which once had been full of life and brilliance, now full of living ghosts and dark despair.

"One minute, forty-five seconds," reported JARVIS. "You shaved five seconds off from last time."

"Hmmm. Add the time it would have taken me to reach the building and log it. Cross reference it with the actual timeline of events. Would I have made it JARVIS?"

"Sir, if I may…"

"You may not. Would I have made it in time?"

"No sir. You would have needed seven more seconds after the time you left the control van, to successfully deactivate the device. However, you wouldn't have had the obsessive practice at disarming it as you have now, thus adding several seconds to your time."

"Pressure's a good motivator." Stark reset the model device back to armed. "Seven seconds huh? Restart the clock JARVIS."

"JARVIS, can you turn the lights up to normal?" asked Bruce, having braved the lab threshold. He'd seen Tony after a three day marathon of tinkering, when the billionaire had barely surfaced for coffee, forgoing sleep in the name of science, but that was nothing compared to the haggard broken man slouched at the table. Stark didn't even show any sign of acknowledgment that someone had stepped into his domain. The state of his friend sent a rumble through Banner's gut. Clint was the dead, but Tony was the walking dead and he wasn't sure which was actually harder to look at.

"When was the last time you slept, Tony?" he asked, coming to stand next to the inventor who was diligently tinkering with a model of the bomb on the table. There was no answer. "Tony," he tried again.

"Huh? What?" Stark muttered looking around bleary eyed and a little dazed.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Oh. I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"You keep this up, it will be sooner than you think." It was a firm warning, wrapped in the best intentions and a selfish plea for the team not to have to bury someone again so soon, if ever. It was hard enough to keep back the tidal wave emotion that threatened to drown him, watching his best friend fall apart in spectacular fashion was crumbling what was left of his resolve. Emotions were messy at the best of time, but adding large green anger to them would be like filling a balloon with paint until it finally burst, splattering the walls in heartache. Bruce couldn't let his feelings out to begin with. The volatile storm swirling within his grief absolutely could not be allowed to show.

"I _have_ to do this Bruce."

"It's not going to bring him back. It doesn't matter if you can disarm that thing blindfolded and with one arm tied behind your back, it doesn't change what happened there."

"It's _my_ bomb! I built it and I should have been there to figure this out. They weren't aiming for Barton, they were aiming for me," shouted Tony, desperately needing Bruce to see the importance of what had happened, to figure out just how much of it was his fault. He was dangerous to be around. Unlike Clint, Charlie clearly wasn't a brilliant marksman, hitting everything around the target but not Tony.

"What are you talking about?" asked Bruce, confusion clearly written on his face.

"JARVIS, replay the comm. chatter," ordered Tony. His obsessive compulsion had started by analyzing every second of the conversation happening over the comm. line, looking for anything that might have tipped them off to the second bomb, anything that could have changed the outcome of Barton being alone in that room to make the ultimate sacrifice.

_"Now why don't you let the kid go and call it a day?"_

_"This little shit's my ticket out of here, but you don't have to worry about that. We were aiming for Stark, but I guess you'll do."_

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Thump._

_"Gahhhh."_

_"Are you hurt anywhere?"_

Bruce listened as the AI replayed part of a conversation that had seemed so long ago. He wasn't sure if it was worse this time or when it had actually happened. Even knowing the general order of events, he still flinched at the gunshots.

"You hear that?" demanded Stark. "That asshole told Barton straight up, it was meant for me. They wanted me in that building. And you know what, had I been part of that mission like I should have been sans leg, Rogers would have sent me to disarm that one once we found it, since the SHIELD team would have been in place to tackle the first one. He told Barton and that idiot still stayed. He stayed and made sure I didn't come." Distain dripped off every word. Had the roles been reversed, Tony would have done exactly the same thing, but that didn't make it easier to swallow. In some weird twist of fate, it made it worse.

"So the whole thing was to target you? Why?" Banner asked skeptically, not really prepared to buy into the whole conspiracy theory aspect.

"I don't know." Stark looked defeated, tired.

Bruce shook his head. "Let it go for now. We're in no shape to get into a war with a guy we know nothing about." He walked back towards the door, shuffling his feet; the energy to do anything with vigor long having left him. There were many things the team needed, but this wasn't going to be it. "There are better things to put your energy in. Get some sleep."

* * *

Natasha pulled open the dresser drawer and rummaged through wrinkled shirts until she found the one she was looking for. They had all once been folded neatly and tucked away for future use by their owner, but in her haste the first night she found herself there, she had left them strewn haphazardly within the drawer.

Sooner or later, Pepper would remember that someone would have to deal with Clint's belongings and organize someone to pack everything up. Until then, Natasha would keep making her way back there in some morbid ritual of self torment.

Nothing was ever disturbed besides the one drawer and the bed. The curtains were pulled back enough to let the silver glow of the moon and florescent lights of the city tempering the darkness. Balling the worn t-shirt, threadbare and logo vanished, she clutched it close to her chest and crawled across the bedspread to curl up in the very middle.

It was too hard to hang around the tower in limbo with nothing to do but think and dwell. Their ivory tower was suffocating, too small and too huge all at the same time. It was vast emptiness in Clint's absence, yet if didn't seem capable of holding their anguish and grief.

Natasha had gone against Steve's wished seeking Fury out. She had left headquarters satisfied, mission in hand with Fury's understanding, but not his blessing. Getting back to work had put her on familiar ground; the more hazardous, the better. Six missions in two weeks and every night before, she found herself standing in Clint's room, in front of his dresser. T-shirt in hand, she would wrap herself around it tightly and drift into a dreamless sleep, his scent all around her. In that brief moment between consciousness and sleep, she could swear she felt his hand resting gently on her hip.

Natasha buried her face in the soft fabric and inhaled deeply. It still smelled like Clint, a combination of after shave, shampoo, lazy Sundays and a life well lived. It was a cobalt blue purchase by a young man who had been too scrawny for it then, who bought it as a luxury the first time cash hadn't been a foreseeable problem. It was probably the first thing Clint had bought with his SHIELD paycheck that was something other than a necessity; definitely the first thing other than a weapon that he had kept, never being abandoned during mission and the chaos of life.

Romanoff had hated it. While Clint had grown into it, it had long become too stretched out and baggy to look anything other than sloppy. The edges had become frayed but still he favored it, as though holding on to it would preserve the moment and feelings that had been his life when had bought it. The color was so out of place from his normal clothing pallet that it had always looked wrong on him, like he was a stranger in his life for a day. She hated it, and now she couldn't bear to have it out of her sight. It was childish. She had been in love.

* * *

Sleep wasn't as generous as it had been before that fateful day. Rogers often found himself engaged in battle with his blankets, trying to catch the tail feathers of rest. Some nights he ran, around the block, through the city, at the racetrack. Other nights he took to the balcony, a silent sentinel watching the city below; all the hustle and bustle of people who had no idea what the world had lost. Tonight he found himself on the archery range.

It seemed desolate, clinical and cold, like the warmth and spark that had resided in it had died along with Barton. He would get over it, they all would and Steve hated himself for knowing that. When Bucky died, he didn't think he would survive it, but he did. It wasn't easy and nothing was the same, but the world hadn't stopped like Steve expected it would. His sense of safety and security had disappeared like someone pulling away a net, but he still had to fly.

Knowing that this sting would fade in its intensity, but not its consistency, didn't ease the blame game. Listening to the deafening silence that would forever haunt this space, Rogers ran the 'what ifs' through his head. Every night before he went into the ice, Steve dreamed of how he could have done things differently on that train; if he had gotten their faster, reached just a little further, how the whole situation would have been different. He should have realized the threat wouldn't have been so straight forward, when he gave to order for Clint to go to the second building. He should have gone with him or sent Thor, even Bruce. Logically, it probably wouldn't have made a difference; in the end the same call would have had to been made and Clint was the type to make sure he was the one to do it. Still another friend had slipped through his fingers. What good was enhanced strength if he couldn't hold onto his friends?


	6. Chapter 6

Tony sat hunched over his workstation staring bitterly at the schematic hovering in blue light. The arrow Clint had designed sat in front, the archer's vision finally realized, and now there was no one to make the work of art fly. It was a useless task Stark was pouring himself into, as though that would be the thing that brought Barton back. This was a task he could complete, which was a nice break from the fruitlessness of trying to piece together the purpose of the device that had stolen the archer's life. Success lied in building that arrow, failure laid everywhere else.

There wasn't a problem he couldn't solve. When he found himself trapped in a cave in Afghanistan with a car battery wire into his chest, he built a suit of armour to escape and an infinite portable power source to replace the cumbersome battery. When said power source was slowly poisoning him, he did what his father never could and created a new element. When the world was in peril at both the hands of aliens and overzealous world leaders, he found a place for a nuclear bomb and a way to decimate the invading army. When it came to saving Barton, he had failed. He saved an entire planet, but one person standing in front of something he created was not within his power. How could someone operating under the monogram of Charlie get the better of him?

Mysterious foes aside, if Stark was actually going to man up about something, it wasn't entirely Charlie's fault Clint had died. Tony built the bomb that facilitated the device, he created the tools and the means for evil to strike down good people. Weapons were his specialty, the foundation of his empire and clearly the only legacy he was destined to leave. The sad thing was, it never really bothered him until it directly impacted his life. Staring at the explosive in Afghanistan had been the first wake up call, which he apparently hit the snooze alarm on. His weapons were still out there causing good people harm and he had sat idly by thinking that playing superhero was somehow balancing the scales.

Tony had tried to balance the scales, to clean up the forces of destruction he created and mitigate the legacy he and his father set upon the world, the one Barton paid the price for. He donned a red and gold suit, flying high and thwarting psychopaths that wanted to rain down destruction. He had ceased his ventures into weapon development, cleaning up his act and mending his ways. Somehow, it hadn't been enough. It should have been him. If anyone was going to throw themselves on that metaphorical grenade, it should have been Tony. Where did Clint get off being the sacrificial lamb for Tony's misguidance?

Clint just didn't take one for the team, he made it real. Sure they took their lumps, but repeatedly defying the odds in the face of death on such a regular basis had given them a sense of invincibility. Stark had thought surviving a nuclear bomb and slipping through the last sliver of portal back to this world had brought home the reality that life was fleeting and easily extinguished, but that fear and realization had quickly been drowned out by the adrenaline of saving the world again.

Life wasn't a game, except in their world, all the pieces always made it home. Losing Clint had shattered that illusion. Coulson had died before New York, but they had received a pass on that one. Coulson from the other reality was a cheat, a get out of jail free card; the game had been allowed to continue and Barton had to go and blow up the board. There was a lifeless body in some SHIELD freezer that proved there was no coming back from this one, there was no do over.

All his genius and he knew no more than Fury's research team, medical team, and espionage network. Their adversary was rather unusual. Psychopaths hell-bent on world domination usually gloated, claiming their handiwork and the destruction it brought. The small details, an electronic signature, was the only thing connecting the device to the elusive Charlie. That created more questions than answers, offering no motive or reason for such an act.

Why tame the destructive force of the Stark built explosive? It was a riddle that kept Tony awake well into the early hours of morning. On its own, the 38-16A-7 would have turned the block into a giant crater, worthy of any super villain's effort. The device the bomb was wired into turned the explosive power into energy, no less harmful to the man trapped in the room with it, but far less devastating to the things around it, leaving everything intact.

The billionaire had run test after test but with no direction to go in, he was just taking shots in the dark; he wasn't the one with the amazing aim. If he couldn't save the team's archer then he owed it to them to give them someone to answer for the crime. _He_ needed someone to answer for the crime. If the team wouldn't punish him, he'd do it himself but before he self-destructed completely, Tony vowed to do everything in his power to set right the scales of justice, and while he had the biggest price to pay, he was determined to make right his and his father's failures, starting with all the evil he brought into the world and working his way up to Charlie.

"JARVIS," called the inventor.

"Yes sir?"

"I want you to run a search for any signs of Stark Industry weapons being used. I don't care by whom. "

"Sir?" questioned the AI, unsure if his creator understood the complexity and futility of such a request. Stark weaponry had been stockpiled by both the government and radical groups; their use still common place, even years after the billionaire had left the arms market.

"Stane was selling them to a lot of people that shouldn't have gotten their hands on them. I'm going to make it right JARVIS. Besides, Charlie got the 38-16A-7 from somewhere, maybe in the process of cleaning up my mess, we can find this son of a bitch."

"What are you doing?" came a voice from behind Tony. He flinched turning around sharply to see Steve standing there. Feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Tony asked, "What do you mean?"

Steve took a good look around the lab which was becoming more of a bottle depot that a place for scientific research. He was watching a friend self-destruct right in front of him. The team had already lost one member, he couldn't allow them to lose another. He could not fail in this the way he had failed with Barton.

It was Rogers' order that had put the archer in that building. A million different plays and that was the one he chose, he put Barton in that room and naturally, Clint did what he did best: play the hero. He couldn't let the rest of the team fall victim to his short sightedness. Sometimes heroes need to be protected from themselves.

"No one's seen you for days and JARVIS says you haven't left this room," stated Rogers.

"I've been working Rogers. Someone has to do something to get this guy," snarled Tony. "Not all of us are comfortable sitting on the sidelines."

"I did what I thought was necessary. We need time," defended Steve. His decision for the team to stand down hadn't been popular; it had actually polarized the team. Thor wanted blood, as did Natasha and Tony. Bruce and Steve with Pepper's approval believed taking some time to grieve was more important that rushing into the fray. Fury had supported Rogers' decision, claiming that the team was no good until they got their heads on straight, though, that didn't stop him from sending some poor schmuck to the tower to deliver a file of assignments for Rogers's consideration every few days.

The team was unfocused and a man down. They didn't need to be thrown into another life or death situation so soon. It would only lead to more loss and heartache. "How's Pepper doing?" asked Steve, trying for a more neutral subject.

"I don't know. She's buried herself in some sort of project... some charity thing in Barton's name. An after school program for underprivileged kids, so they don't run away and join the circus or some shit," replied Tony, never taking his eyes off of the arrow head he was working on. Working was really a stretch, the prototype had been ready for over an hour, but there was something comforting in tightening the same screw repeatedly. It was easy to get lost in and not think about all the things he should be thinking about.

Rogers smiled fondly. "That's good."

The billionaire's head shot up, a twisted and sarcastic smile warping his face to something almost unrecognizable. "Isn't it just fan-tast-ic." He snatched the half empty bottle and took a swig, the formality of pouring a glass long since passed.

Steve automatically reached over and pried the bottle out of Tony's hands, drops of scotch splashing on the floor. "I think you've had enough," cautioned Rogers, in his Captain America voice.

There was a witty remark needed to break the tension, to point out the absurdity of the blond thinking he could come into the lab of all places, and pull whatever imaginary rank Captain America believed he held over the regular people, but Tony just couldn't find it. Stark could feel that youthful rebellion build up in him, the same feeling he had when some half hearted attempt of a parental figure believed they could step in and guide the young lost prodigy in Howard's stead. The problem now was there was nothing left to fight with, let alone for. "I'll tell you when I've had enough _Steven_. You may be old enough to be my father, but last time I checked, you weren't."

Stark made to grab his bottle back, but Steve raised his hand out of Tony's reach. Gently, but with enough force to get his point across, he pushed the inventor out of the way and stepped over to the sink. The billionaire made no attempt to reclaim his prize as Steve poured its contents down the drain. It was a hollow victory, the tower had an endless reserve of fine spirits for Tony to drown his sorrows, but it might be the spark to light a small ember of reason.

Like a bitter child, Tony spat, "Yes, pouring my booze out, that'll solve things. I've more money than god; I'll just send a lackey to get more, something better. Hell, I'll have it flow straight from the tap."

The blond let out a long sigh. His efforts might be more effective if he banged his head against the wall, but these were his people and he need to protect them, even from themselves. Captain America's failures can't keep piling up the way they are. "Don't do this Tony."

"Hey, _you_ came down here."

Steve wanted to rise to the bait. He'd run out of punching bags for his frustration days ago and he was dying to hit something. Yes, Stark was hurting but his attitude was rubbing salt into the rest of the team's wound. "When you're ready to talk, you know where to find us," offered the Captain before giving up and leaving the lab.

* * *

Bruce sat slouched in the overstuffed recliner next to the large window in the common room. It offered a great view of the city and caught the early morning light just right. Normally he was a very proficient reader, but his current choice was giving him trouble. It wasn't the content of the extra thick book that was proving difficult, but his ability to focus for more than a few seconds. Every other sentence he found his mind wandering off on some wild tangent, forcing him to go back and reread the section again and again. He would give up the endeavour, but then how would he fill his time?

There was an abundance of it now, every second claiming the space of minutes stretching the day longer and longer every time one looked at the clock. Time was an ever expanding void with the question of how to fill it floating idly by. Daily tasks that often seemed so important were repetitive uselessness that garnered nothing. The energy required for simply existing was taxing and never ending.

Thor was staying with Jane more often than not and when he did make an appearance, he was an untamed hurricane of misplaced frustration and rage. Natasha had disappeared the second they left the cemetery and hadn't been physically seen since, though the odd trace of her presence could be found once in awhile. Tony had turned the labs into his own personal dungeon which housed an unhealthy black hole of fixation Bruce didn't want to get sucked into. Steve was trying too hard to be reasonable, empathetic and understanding. It was a minefield of emotions in the tower and the doctor didn't want to trip on any of them and so he sat, uselessly staring at a book that he couldn't seem to get past the first page on.

"That's a rather large book you have there," commented Pepper as she dropped her briefcase on the couch. She slipped off her high heels, providing relief for her aching feet after a long day in the office. Her smile was disturbingly fake, something plastered on to convince the world and herself that things were copasetic. Bruce desperately wanted to buy into the lie.

"I have some time on my hands and I figured why not," offered Banner.

The silence hung in the room sucking out all the air. It was the thing they never talked about. Sure, some of them yelled about it; Thor offering drunken verse about the heroics of the deed, Tony, Steve and the Norse god shouting about who was to blame and face their wrath, but the emptiness was never spoken of. Barton was quickly becoming the thing that haunted them, filling every room with his lack of presence; the ghost that if they refused to acknowledge it enough, could fade into oblivion with all the pain and misery that had been created.

"It's okay to let yourself feel something ," encouraged Pepper, her painful smile holding back her tears.

Bruce pulled off his glasses, using his shirt hem to wipe them. "I'm not so sure it is such a good idea. If I let myself feel something, it's most likely going to be anger and that's not going to work out so well for anyone."

Out of all of them, the Hulk would probably be the most honest with his feelings. A raw nerve exposed didn't tend to hold back on its emotions. The finer details of what had transpired might have been lost on his green alter ego, but the sense of loss wasn't. Really the green guy's emotions were the purest, uncluttered with personal perception. Hawkeye was gone and that left a hole. The team was hurting and that was sad. It was a far cry from the unbridled rage that drove the monster.

Letting him take over would provide much needed relief. Bruce would love someone else to take over, to go through the motions, until things thought about being normal again. The people around him didn't deserve the destruction the Hulk could bring, even if this was the one time it would give Bruce some solace. They couldn't all fall apart at the same time, someone had to hold it together. Displaying messy emotions weren't going to do him any good but perhaps being the rock would give the others comfort.

"I have a genius locked in a lab on a world ending bender that would suggest otherwise," countered Pepper, grabbing her belongs and heading for the kitchen. "Imploding later won't help things either."

Banner turned back to his book, trying to ignore the weight of the CEO's words. He could control his display of feeling in this, and after the events that robbed the team of a dear friend, it looked like it might be the only thing in life he could control.

* * *

The music was thumping and the general atmosphere of the club was joyous and alive. That feeling stopped short of the table in the back, like hitting a brick wall. Darcy, the most excited to be there, was sympathetically reserved, while Jane was trying her best to hide her dislike of concept of hanging out at a club with support for Thor agreeing to get out of the apartment with them.

"You might want to take it easy with that," warned Darcy, in awe of Thor downing a whole pitcher of Blue Hawaiian that was placed on the table for the whole group.

"It is interestingly sweet for ale," Thor stated before placing the jug down on the table, none too gently.

"Well it is discriminately classified as a girly drink," spat Jane.

"Are the women of your world not considered worthy of the same ales men drink?" posed Thor at the distinction.

Darcy shrugged. "What can I say, bar stars like things with bright colors and little plastic umbrellas."

"It's a chauvinistic title implying that men can handle the bitter taste alcohol better than women. Sweet drinks also make it easier for a person to drink more and not realize how drunk their getting," added Jane, pushing away the next round the waitress was depositing. "I think we've had enough tonight," she told Darcy.

The group had decided to go out at Darcy's urging to escape the cloud of depression that had been hanging over them. The bar scene had never been Jane's forte, drunken people slurring words and spilling drinks on her weren't her idea of a good time, but the promise of being around people that remembered what happy was had been the pull. If their merriment could rub off on Thor and ease the ache his most recent loss had created, then the night would have been worth it.

"I don't believe I'm ready to leave yet," protested Thor, reaching for a glass but instead demonstrating his impaired depth perception.

Jane placed her hands around his muscular arm and pulled. "Oh trust me, you're ready."

"Yeah, dude. Most people stop at two pitchers, not seven." Darcy slide out of the booth grabbing both of their jackets.

Thor shook off Jane's help insisting he could do it on his own. As Jane stepped back to give the enormous blond some space, a young guy stumbled into her. With a shove he spat, "Watch it bitch."

Jane was prepared to let it go, fights with drunks were usually pointless and it wasn't like he was coordinated enough to actually hurt her, but Thor seemed to be less forgiving. The god was on his feet in a flash, grabbing the young punk by the back of his shirt as he turned away from Jane.

"I believe you owe the lady an apology," he insisted, voice booming over the steady thumping of the music.

"Let go," demanded the smaller man, struggling in vain against Thor's grip. "She got in my way."

"That's not how I saw it."

Realizing he wasn't going to dislodge himself, the guy relented. "Alright." Thor released him and the man straightened his shirt. "I'm sorry she's such a dumb bitch."

Thor's eyes lit up with fury, his fingers curling into tight fists on reflex. Jane immediately stepped between him and the subject of his rage. "It's fine, just leave it Thor," she demanded, trying to get the angered god to leave without turning it into a blood bath.

"Nay." Thor picked Jane up and placed her behind him like a mother bear standing between her cubs and an angry mountain lion, only the scrawny punk before him was far from being a mountain lion. One solid punch and the guy was flat out on the ground.

It wasn't a satisfying fight, if it could even be called that, but it had satisfied something deep within Thor. A wrong had been corrected, by his hands. He had stood up for those that were important to him and hadn't let the trespass pass. With a grin firmly on his place, he relented to Jane's pulling and followed her and Darcy out of the club.

Once in the parking lot, Jane turned sharply around on him. "Okay, what the hell was that?" Her frustration was a counter to his contentment.

"He insulted your honour."

"My honour?" started Jane.

"I'm just going to pull the car around," interrupted Darcy, slinking away before the pair really got into a heated debate.

"If anyone's going to defend my honour, it's going to be me," insisted Jane.

"But you weren't," chuckled Thor, still riding the wave of enjoyment he experienced in the club.

"Yeah, because he was drunk and not worth my time." She paused, staring at him thoughtfully for a moment. "This really doesn't have anything to do with that guy back there does it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I think you should go back and stay with the team. I think you need that right now Thor, and honestly, the regular people aren't going to be able to withstand misplaced, but well meaning, incidents like this." She had insisted, Thor come with her, get away from the constant reminders of his recent losses. The tower had to be a painful reminder; the former home of the archer, the last stand of his brother, and opulence that could only remind him of the palace on Asgard, former home of his departed mother. It seemed like he needed something she just couldn't give him.

"I would feel better if those responsible for the archer's demise felt the righteous weight of Mjölnir against them," he confessed.

"Right, so you go do that, and I'll be waiting right here when you're done." She offered her blessing, not knowing how long it would be before Thor came back to her.

"Thank you Jane."


	7. Chapter 7

**One Month Later**

Rhodes moved across the tarmac with purpose. His flight had been delayed due to weather and as it stood he was forty minutes late for his meeting already and he had only just landed. With his briefcase in hand, he hurried his pace stopping just short of full out running to where a vehicle should be waiting. He tensed slightly at the metallic thump and breaking of ash vault behind him.

He turned to find a formidable Iron Man standing there staring at him. "Tony?"

Stark didn't even bother to flip his faceplate up; this was business, not personal. "I want my weapons Colonel."

Rhodes frowned, a sinking feeling that some young upstart with delusions of Colonel had a brilliant brainwave to try and commandeer Stark Tech. "What's going on Tony? What weapons?"

"Stark Industry weapons. I want everything the government stockpiled."

"You want what? You think the government is just going to hand that kind of weaponry over and in that quantity after they bought it? What's going on?"

Stark moved to flip his faceplate up and after the second attempt finally managed to get it. If it wasn't for the suit holding him up he probably would have fallen over by now. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, but he tried to stare down his friend.

Rhodes took a long hard look at the man standing before him. He'd seen Tony in many states: happy, sad, irate, cocksure, angry, blissful, and distraught. It had been a long time since he'd seen him so drunk the man could barely stand. Stark was a champion when it came to consuming alcohol, taking a lot to throw him off his game. This man standing before him was a lush on a bender that was quickly coming to an end. "Are you drunk?" accused Rhodes.

"I might have had a pick me up," defended Stark. "I have a lot do. Promises to keep and miles before I sleep and what not."

"I heard about some unauthorized action in the middle east that was tentatively attributed to you."

Stark just shrugged, but didn't correct Rhodes' suspicion. "I told you I'm looking for my weapons. I don't care who has them, they're mine and I want them back, _before_ someone else gets hurt."

"Is that what this is about, Hawkeye? That wasn't your fault Tony." The Colonel place a hand on Iron Man's shoulder, only to have his friend shake it off with one large step back.

"Just start making calls about my weapons," pushed Tony, flipping his facemask down.

"You know I can't do that, Tony." It wasn't an apology of sorts, but it was sympathetic and deep down he knew Stark knew it wasn't going to happen. Iron Man blasted off, tearing through the sky in a straight line due to JARVIS, leaving Rhodes standing there alone. He had never seen Tony looks so haggard, broken and splayed open for the world to see.

He pulled out his cell phone and tapped in the familiar number. "Come on Pick up," he mumbled, listening to it ring. "Hey Pepper, I need to talk to you, it's about Tony."

* * *

Leaving the lights off, Natasha made her way to the supply cabinet in Stark's makeshift medical room. The routine was so familiar, she could do it with her eyes closed now. The lights of the city gave just enough illumination that the room wasn't a complete black void.

Gingerly pulling her shirt off, she began her well rehearsed dance of tending to her wounds. They were never life threatening to catch the eye of her fellow agents and land her in a proper medical facility where too many questions would be asked. They were more than bumps and bruises though, suggesting that her stealth, grace and overall competence wasn't what it used to be. By all rights, a medical professional should be the one tending to them, but that would draw unwanted attention and good intentions. She couldn't continue on as she was if people grew concerned.

Steve would put an outright stop to it if he found out she had gone behind his back, practically begging Fury to give her something, _anything_ , worthy of her skill set. Being around Clint had forced her to feel, to come out from herself imposed ice fortress that guarded her heart; she had let him in and now he was gone. Without him, there was only what she was before a young cocky kid with a bow saw something worth salvaging; she would be that cold proficient spy again. This time she could do it without any reservations, give herself one-hundred percent and not worry about saving anything for the return. There was nothing to come home to anymore; those that had stolen from her would pay for their sins, even if it cost her her soul. Vengeance, it would end with their deaths or hers.

With deft fingers she threaded the needle and began to suturing the gash in her side. Natasha had taken to forgoing any type of freezing; pain reminded her that she was alive. Sometimes that was an important distinction when the numbness of the gaping hole within her threatened to swallow her up.

The pain also drowned out Clint's voice. The constant commentary from the archer telling her to stop, that she didn't need to do this just created fractures in her resolve. She had been weak by letting him in, she would not make that mistake again and let his death cause her to fall apart. The Black Widow did not cry, she did not give into world crushing grief. She needed work, to walk along that edge of life and death in some attempt to catch glimpses of the thing she lost.

Pushing herself beyond her limits with mission after mission gave her anger a release. The subject of her anger was dead, he couldn't feel her wrath, but a world full of enemies of SHIELD were ripe for the picking.

"Natasha."

Romanoff's hand flinched as her head snapped up. She knew she was off her game, but she didn't realize how much until Banner managed to sneak up on her. "Bruce." There really was no cover for this, no way to explain what was displayed out in front of him.

Stepping further into the room, he pulled up a stool and sat down beside her. Taking the needle and gauze, he asked, "How long are you going to keep doing this?"

"I was just…"

"Don't lie to me," snapped the doctor.

Natasha looked Bruce dead in the eyes. "I miss calculated a dismount in the gym." There was an edge to her voice, like she dared Banner to challenge it.

Bruce finished tying off the thread before slamming the instruments on the table. "We both know you're more graceful than that. Even if it happened once, you're honestly going to stand there and tell me it's happened eight other times? And that's just based on what I can see. Tell me Natasha, what kind of injuries are you sporting on the rest of your body?"

"SHIELD business doesn't concern you Dr. Banner," she warned.

Bruce let out a huff. The blatant disregard for her life was infuriating, especially after they were all reminded just how fragile life was. "There are no SHIELD missions, Steve has us on stand down, so stop with the lies."

She grabbed her shirt off of the table and put it on, ignoring the way her fresh stitches pulled. "What I do, is none of your business," spat Romanoff.

"We're still a team. What happens to you is all of our business," countered Banner, his voice rising to counter the bite in hers.

Something snapped within Natasha. How dare he stand there and claim that this group of misfits would have her back when they didn't even know her. They didn't know her history, see what she had been through and offered her a hand and way out despite the blood on it. These virtuous people would turn their back on her if they had the first clue about the fires that forged her soul and somehow they were going to fill the hole left by the archer? How dare they try. "Leave it alone," she shouted, shoving the other man hard.

Bruce took a step back under the force, but not willing to relent, he moved even closer to the angry assassin. Natasha immediately started throwing punches; blow after blow landing on his chest. It was a recipe for a Hulk out, but she didn't stop and Bruce never hit back. He grit his teeth and let her hate and frustration pour out, determine to keep the green guy in check, and surprisingly he agreed.

"I hate you," she screamed, not pausing in her strikes. She didn't fear the Hulk, not because she believed Banner had the strength to keep him locked away under such an assault, but because she had nothing left to lose. If suicide missions for SHIELD couldn't accomplish the task, the Hulk could. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate him." Her voice finally cracked and with it all the energy she was using to keep herself going. Bruce's arms wrapped around her and they both sank to the floor. "How could he just leave me here alone?" she sobbed.

"Killing yourself won't bring him back," whispered Bruce.

It was oddly comforting being in Bruce's arms; it felt safe despite the constant threat that the monster lurking within might make an appearance. "I've spent so much of my life trying to wipe the slate clean, to make up for everything and be worthy of the chance Clint took on me, that was my purpose. And when we were done, and the bad guys were finished, and I proved myself deserving of his love and devotion, we were going to be like normal people. Grow old on a porch and watch the kids play. Even though riding off into the sunset wasn't really going to happen, I just don't know how to go on without him."

"What you're doing, it's not the answer. He didn't do it to hurt you and given any other options, he would have chosen to walk away that day. You can be mad at the injustice of it all, mad at the unfairness, but don't hate him and don't hate yourself. He wouldn't want that for you.

They sat there huddling on the floor together, long into the night, Bruce's arms wrapped tightly, holding her together. "Sometimes I think he's here."

* * *

The tower was quiet. It was thick like a blanket smothering everyone residing within. The depressing atmosphere had become a staple, becoming the new normal and that made it even more depressing. Steve wandered through the common rooms, chasing the shadows of what was once the tenuous embrace of a makeshift family. The team was hurting and there was nothing he could do to ease their suffering. Clint was gone and even if they didn't like it, they would have to experience the learning curve that was moving on without him. There were times though, that it felt like the archer was there, just out of sight, lurking around a corner but there was never anything there but disappointment.

His friends had become ghosts. Natasha had disappeared after their final farewell in the cemetery, though he had it on good authority that she occasionally passed through the tower in the depths of night every few days. Thor, before he left to spend time with Jane, had been grumbling around the tower, demanding that Steve lead them in glorious battle against those who had slain their brother. Steve wished he had someone deserving of Thor's wrath to point the god at. With Thor away and Natasha MIA, the team was splintering. Tony was an in house ghost and Pepper has disappeared into her office. Out of everyone, her efforts were the most noble, creating a worthy legacy in the archer's name. On paper, Bruce would appear to be an ally, except that he was a self contained black hole, sucking in everyone else's emotions but giving none in return.

Steve had spent so much time and energy trying to protect what was left of his team, to make sure they were alright, that Clint's death hadn't really hit him yet. Logically he knew Barton was gone and the thought left a painful sting deep in his gut, but his heart kept telling him to buy into the lie that the archer was just away on a mission. Everything was normal, he would walk through that door one day like nothing had been out of the ordinary and Steve wanted to believe it. It was a game of make believe he wasn't ready to give up.

The soft backsplash lighting was on in the kitchen painting it in warm dim light. A place that had once been the heart of the tower, and more recently a cold forgotten space, was occupied. All four Avengers looked up as Steve walked in the room, their conversation falling silent at his apparent intrusion. "Guys, Natasha," he greeted self-consciously.

"Glad you could join us Steve," offered Bruce, looking a little relieved that someone else was joining their conversation.

Romanoff was a stone statue, more fixated on the marble countertop than anything else going on in the room. Thor, who had somehow gotten the memo when Rogers hadn't, seemed to be in line with whatever agenda Stark was pushing, that Bruce clearly didn't seem to agree with.

"What are we talking about?" asked the Captain, trying not to feel left out, to feel even more alone than he already did. Apparently he didn't even warrant being informed when Thor had returned to the tower.

"The topic of most of our discussions: Charlie," snarled Tony, hostile and bitter in turn.

The blond grit his teeth together, clenching his jaw. It wasn't that he didn't want to track down this elusive enemy for everything he had done to them, but there was more to consider than running around half cocked. Charlie had proven to have resources and allies, the team and SHIELD couldn't even fathom. Steve, Tony, Clint and Bruce had been taken hostage, had their memories erased and almost convinced into betraying everything they were told was a delusion. No other adversary had been that successful against them or that elusive. They had a name but no face; he could have been a ghost for all they knew. Now Charlie had pulled off a feat only dreamt about by every enemy that had face the Avengers, he had killed one. Steve wanted nothing more than to tear this man apart. He could picture a million ways to make him suffer but it would break a part of his soul and it wouldn't change anything. The risk, that such a venture would put the team within Charlie's reach wasn't worth it. He had hurt them once already, Steve couldn't let him do it again. "We've been over this. We don't know enough about him to take any action against him. We just don't know what we're up against."

"I got a lead on the whereabouts of some of his hired thugs, I say we start there and work our way up," countered Tony.

"What if they don't give him up? What if it's a trap?" argued Rogers.

"If you're afraid, you can stay here, but trust me, when we get through with them, they won't be protecting their boss." There was hate in Stark's eyes, dark and deep. The sentiment was echoed in Thor.

Steve could feel the situation spiralling out of control. They were on a wire, one false step was going to send anyone of them tumbling into darkness, never to emerge. "This isn't how this team operates."

"I'm going to go out and get some revenge. Who knows, it might help me sleep better," declared Stark, storming towards the door.

Steve clamped his hand down on the billionaire's shoulder, forcing him to stop. "This team isn't about vengeance. We're not in the business of revenge."

"No, but we do avenge. It's kind of our deal. Who's with me?"

"Aye, I would take great pleasure in inflicting vengeance on those who have stolen our brethren," announced Thor, leaping off his stool in eager anticipation.

Bruce rolled his eyes and took a step closer towards the door. They were an angry mob calling for blood; monsters didn't do so well in those situations. Natasha's icy gaze was firmly fixed on the same spot on the table as it had been through the whole conversation; her deathly red lips as silent as the grave.

"Looks like some of us are Cap." A vindicated smile washed over Stark's face. He wasn't completely alone in this idea. Thor wasn't one to back a loser, and with him on his side, the idea couldn't be as insane as it sounded.

There would be no stopping them if Steve couldn't come up with a convincing argument. There was a small list of people that Rogers wanted to wrap his hands around their throats and squeeze until the light went out of their eyes, but then that line that separate the good guys from the bad guys would have been crossed. They couldn't defend the helpless if they were no better than those they were defending against. He was the team leader, it was his job to protect his people, even their souls. "Barton wouldn't want this."

"He's dead, he doesn't get a vote anymore." Tony's voice rose with every word. "We're tired of sitting around doing nothing while these people get away..." His words were cut off with a giant clang as a large frying pan tumbled off the wall, crashing to the floor. The billionaire glared at it as though the tower that he designed and helped build was siding with Rogers. Yet another thing he created defying him. A little calmer, he spat, "And does it hurt to be so self-righteous all the time?"

"Tony." It was a half felt warning, that both knew Steve wouldn't act on. The worst case scenario, Captain America would leave with hurt feelings but he'd never deliver the blow Stark knew he had coming.

"No, I'm serious. I was considering it, but now I'm not so sure."

"I don't know what to do! Is that what you want to hear?" The scream echoed off the walls, sucking all the sound out of the room. The damn holding in all of Rogers' frustration had broken.

Of all the people he actually wanted to gut, Steve wasn't on the list. Watching someone else in pain, sucked all the air out of Tony, but apologise wasn't in his vast vocabulary. "Normally, I would take pleasure in your ineptitude, but not this time." It had killed the mood to be reminded that each one wasn't the only one hurting. With nothing left to say, Tony stormed out of the room, Thor hot on his heels.

Steve looked towards the door Bruce had been hovering near to find that the doctor had vanished at some point in the conversation. Looking back at Natasha, who was now staring at the pan on the floor, he asked, "Are you going to say anything?"

"No."


	8. Chapter 8

The room was bleak, barren and cold, not unlike the façade Natasha had been putting out to the rest of the world. Her uniform offered no comfort from the cold as white wisps of air took flight from her lips. She wanted to step closer, but an unnatural fear held her in place just a few feet from the edge of the table.

Natasha swallowed, trying to work some moisture back into her mouth, to redirect her body's fluids away from forming tears that she stubbornly refused to shed. Shakily, she took one giant step forward, and then another until she was standing next to the table. Her breath froze in her throat, setting it on fire. She had seen her fair share of dead bodies in her life, but none had had this effect on her before.

Clint's skin had taken on an unhealthy blue tinge, a further reminder that the stillness of the body was the onset of something permanent and final. He had come to despise the color blue after Loki used him to destroy everything he had worked so hard for, and now even in death, it was some cruel joke, like maybe the demented god had won. Natasha reached forward, resting her hand on his, seeking comfort where none could be given. It was so cold and un-human.

Natasha just stared at the lifeless body before her, waiting for the joke to end, the nightmare to dissolve into reality, but as the minutes passed, that hope died as well. He didn't look like death. There were no gashes and scars depicting a fall in battle, just lax features and stillness. Bombs were messy and destructive but this one had been transformed from ultimate destruction to the simple elimination of one soul.

Her frown wrinkled her porcelain beauty that served as her mask to the world to convey a youthfulness experience wouldn't allow her to have. She had buried many, some she liked, some she didn't but Clint always came back.

The thought made her angry. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. "You promised," she bit out. "You promised!" she repeated a little louder, rage finding her voice. "How dare you go back on your word and be so selfish as to leave me here alone." Hot traitorous tears that curled their way down her face splashing against Barton's cold skin but still the man did not move. He wasn't going to come back from this.

Clint stood in the darkened corner watching Romanoff fall apart in front of him. He felt funny, different, like the world was fuzzy and nothing existed outside that moment. He watched her with morbid fascination, curious as to what would be so emotionally crippling that it would reduce the Black Widow to this fragile being before him. He was missing time somewhere. The last clear memory he could find was staring at a clock counting down the seconds until… He didn't know anymore. There was a countdown and then he was just here, perched in the corner.

He wanted to comfort her, tell her that it would be alright, that nothing could be that bad that they couldn't overcome it. Maybe she could shed some light on how he got from point A to now. "Tasha," he whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.

Romanoff tensed, slipping her game face back on. She didn't turn around. Perhaps she didn't hear him. Clint cleared his throat to try again but someone else beat him to the punch.

"Natasha."

She turned around, zeroing in on who would dare step in on her moment of anguish. Disappointment rippled over her face. "Bruce? I thought I heard Cl…" Natasha brought her hand up to remove all evidence of any tears that had defied her. "What are you doing here?"

"You missed the service," Bruce informed, looking around the room nervously. Natasha just stared at him blankly like the words just didn't have meaning. "Cap wants us to be at the cemetery, as a team for one final goodbye."

Panic welled up in Barton. Cemetery and final good bye meant someone had died. The missing time suddenly felt like a brick in his gut. Was that why Natasha was so upset; someone one the team had died?

"I'm not… I can't…" started Romanoff, putting her back to him.

"What happened?" asked Clint , getting no response from either of them. He could account for two members of the team, but what about the others? Tony wasn't even supposed to be there, he should have been on medical leave but the stubborn asshole had insisted. "Oh god, did something happen to Tony?"

"Steve kind of punched out Fury, so he expects us to be there."

Confusion played across the archer's face. It was like he wasn't even part of the conversation. If Rogers punched the Director, then that left Thor. "Tell me something didn't happen to Thor," he demanded.

Natasha bit her lip. "I'll be right with you, I just need a minute. Alone."

Banner nodded, silently taking his leave to wait outside the door.

She stood there for a moment, searing the horrific image in her brain to somehow convince her heart of the truth of it all. "I guess this is goodbye," she choked out.

"Natasha, tell me what's happening, please," begged Clint.

Leaning over the body, she placed a tender chaste kiss on his lips. It was a moment she didn't want to let go, like walking away was a betrayal of everything they should have had. With nothing on the other side of that kiss, the fact that she had missed their opportunity by holding back to protect herself from this very moment didn't spare her from this painful end.

Clint took a step forward, but aborted the offer of comfort he was going to make when Natasha stood up and he got his first clear view of who was on the table. He sucked in a sharp gasp as suddenly everything clicked in place and the clock that had been counting down in his memory reached zero.

Swallowing back the sob that wanted to tear her apart, she headed for the door. She was almost there when every instinct she had honed proclaimed there was someone in the room. Her head snapped around to take in the quiet emptiness of the morgue. Her eyes settled in the corner, desperately searching for who was there. It was a spot Clint would have chosen to settle, a place he would perch at to observe the interactions of people in the room but the corner was empty; there was no one there, nor would there be. Reconciling that her imagination was going to be toying with her for some time, she walked out of the room, leaving Barton for the last time.

Clint watched as Natasha stared straight through him as though he wasn't there. He followed her with his eyes as she walked out of the room before taking a bold step towards the body lying there. He put one foot in front of the other, not conscious of the effort, too focused on what lay before him. He trusted his eyes but part of him couldn't reconcile what he was seeing. He looked back at the door Natasha had retreated through hoping that this was some elaborate twisted joke by Stark, but no one came through. "Well, this is different," he muttered to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

A million scenarios ran through his head, plausible and impossible scenarios that could possibly explain how Clint came face to face with himself lying on a slab in the quarantine part of a SHIELD morgue. He was being punked; this was some elaborate hoax that every agent he seemed to try and talk to, were all paid off by Stark in some over the top scheme to get revenge for. . . something.

He took stock of himself. He had his uniform, as pristine as when he had put it on that morning. His bow was missing, but Stark knew better than to mess with that. Personal weapons were exempted from any and all pranks; you just didn't mess with someone else's personal life line. He did remember laying his bow down though, somewhere between the bullets and a frightened child. Somebody better have remembered to grab it and return it to his weapons locker. His radio was also missing but if everyone was going along with Stark's sick joke it wouldn't matter who he could contact.

Barton's hidden weapons were all in place except for his gun which he vaguely remembered firing. The handful of explosive arrow heads he had been using to model new designs from were still tucked safely in his pocket from where he crammed them when the call out had come and something else. He pulled out the mysterious object; the damn ball Stark had thrown back at him. Shoving it back in his pocket he vowed to make it the center of the retribution that was going to be going Tony's way.

He ran to catch up to Banner and Natasha, just hoping they would turn around and acknowledge his presence. Their chilly silence wasn't hard to miss. These people were emotional wrecks on the inside and while he could believe Natasha could sell anything, the odds of Bruce being a closet actor were slim to none. With talent like that the man would be collecting Oscars, not spending his time writing research papers that two percent of the population could even understand. No this was genuine and heartfelt despair and only added to the sinking feeling in the archer's gut.

It couldn't possibly be true; it was absolutely ridiculous. He was not a ghost. Gods with magical hammers, alien invasions, heroes frozen in the ice for almost a century, coming back to life to fight the faces of evil, these impossible things were reality not Agent Barton wandering ghost, except . . . He was _so_ dead.

The hall seemed to stretch on forever as time came to a halt. Bruce had come to bring Natasha to the cemetery. For a funeral. For _his_ funeral. Clint's feet suddenly stopped working, leaving him standing in the middle of the busy corridor, chest heaving. He'd made a career out of defying death, of staring him in the face and flipping the bird. From the moment Clint had picked up a bow for something other than performing at the circus, he knew he'd bought an early ticket to the grave, it was just a matter of time before someone got lucky, he got sloppy or his best just wasn't going to be good enough. That was the cost of trying to better the world, and while the possibility always lurked in the back of his mind, the end result would be he would be dead, and really, after that he didn't think he'd have anything to worry about. This was worse than anything he could have imagined.

Clint needed to find someone who wouldn't be on Stark's payroll, that wouldn't go alone with this sick joke because he wasn't dead; it couldn't have happened no matter what it looked like. It just wasn't an answer he was prepared to swallow.

Agent Sitwell sauntered through the cross corridor and Clint saw his opportunity. Changing directions he jogged after the more senior agent. "Sitwell, maybe you can tell me what's going on around here?" called Barton, almost at his side. The other man didn't falter in his gait or spare the archer a glance. "Oh, come on. This is getting a little tiring."

Still nothing.

Something in Clint snapped. His head had been messed with enough by people he didn't like. This was seriously a new low. "Jasper, you don't even like Stark!" He reached out to grab Sitwell's shoulder, force him to stop and look at him, but his hand went right through the man. Clint looked at his hand as though it had personally betrayed him. He didn't even bother to try again as Sitwell continued on his way unaffected by the ghost that had been following him.

The proof was getting harder to ignore. All those wild ideas to explain what he knew deep down were evaporating quickly. He was drowning in a sea of darkness, the gravity of the situation pulling him deep below the surface. It had been a long time since he felt panic like this. "This isn't happening," he whispered.

The thought struck like lightening: the team. Whatever was going on, and it was _whatever_ because accepting dead really was going to be the final nail in the coffin, the team could figure it out and fix it. It had to be fixable because the alternative wasn't acceptable.

Suddenly the world whited out, everything losing shape and form to become empty blankness. It was a disconcerting feeling that lasted a moment leaving Clint feeling nauseous. Like a computer rebooting, his senses snapped back into place, interrupting his surroundings which had vastly changed. His head snapped around finding comfort in the familiar while simultaneously freaking out at the change in his surroundings. No longer in the middle of SHIELD headquarters, the archer found himself in the middle of the common room in Stark Tower; exactly where he wanted to be.

He tried not to think too much about it; just another thing Tony could give a novel length explanation about once the billionaire fixed this. Ignoring his inner teenager with cliché thoughts about misusing his current 'power' for youth fuelled indecent activities, he went in search of someone he could try and connect with.

With each empty room a little piece of his resolve died. "Where the hell is everyone?" His voice was a raspy breath, afraid to receive an answer that was going to shatter the illusion he was desperately clinging too. "JARVIS, where is everybody?" There was no reply and Clint wasn't sure if he had really expected his day to turn around or not.

A large vase of crisp white lilies sat prominently on the coffee table. It was a new addition to the room and fairly recently judging by the vibrancy and health of the arrangement. With sympathy scrawled across the top of the card caught the light with its metallic ink. "Right, funeral."

If there wasn't going to be anyone to get through to, then he was going to do a little research of his own. With a clear time gap between the bomb detonating and his first memory of Natasha standing by his body in the morgue, that left time for SHIELD to at least piece together the crime scene.

* * *

Nausea rolled through Barton again and he had to place his hand on the wall to keep from tipping over. Nobody may be able to see him, but that wouldn't diminish the embarrassment of completely face planting. Worry for his dignity and reputation came to a screeching halt as Clint stared at the wall and more importantly, the hand resting against it. His moment of excitement was short lived; like a child learning to ride a bicycle, the second he realized he was doing it, he promptly lost the ability to do and crashed.

Hitting the floor hurt just as much as it should have. "This is the worst not afterlife ever," Barton mumbled. Momentary concern started to rise about the ability to actually lie on the thirtieth floor of a building, but the archer shut it down immediately. The last thing he wanted was to experience free fall down thirty stories without his gear at the ready. Deciding to lean towards the silver lining, Clint noted the potential his brief moment of non floor contact could lead to.

The first stop was medical. It was a shame the medical personal couldn't witness him walking into the facility under his own power and without something that needed attention. It wasn't that he had a particular problem with doctors and the like, but years of living under the threat of what would happen if you spoke to a doctor or alerted one to the many 'accidents' that occurred when he was a child under his father's watchful fist, had created an aversion that didn't lessen in adulthood.

SHIELD loved its paperwork and it wasn't hard to find printed documentation sloughed across a desk. Considering the way many SHIELD employees still felt about him after the whole Loki/helicarrier incident, it was kind of warming to find that his unfortunate circumstance seemed to be a top priority.

Armed with a disturbing recount he never thought he'd be privy to, the next stop was the center of the SHIELD information highway: Fury's office. It was the one time so far that a lack or corporeal touch was a perk. Normally breaking into the Director's office was like running the gantlet, not that the archer would ever cop to having any experience in such matters, this was literally walking through walls.

The Director wasn't in his office, leaving Clint nothing to do but wait and fruitlessly attempt to touch the computer. It was the definition of insanity in all its glory; no matter how many times he tried, the result was the same. There were moments where he thought he could actually feel the object brush against his fingers but it must have been nothing more than a phantom feeling because nothing ever reacted to his commands. It was getting harder and harder to pretend that the whole situation wasn't happening.

Why did crap always seem to pile up on him? Karma had it out for him with a vengeance and for the most part, Barton went along with, having a laundry list of things to atone for, but this? Reincarnation had to be a thing because multiple lives of horribleness could be the only explanation for this being dumped on him. Clint clenched his hands into fists and slammed them down towards the desk. He expected them to go right through and collide with his thighs, instead they slammed against the dark and unrelenting wood sending a jarring vibration that ran up his arms and through his body.

The archer froze, scared to do anything that might upset the fragile balance of what had just happened. He was in contact, actual contact with the desk. He could feel the polished surface beneath his fingertips, the coolness from lack of human contact.

He slowly lifted his hands and turned until they were hovering over the computer. "Please, please, please work." The moment was too important not to beg, to plead with every deity real and imaginary. He made a solemn promise to be a better person, to do more good for the world on a more personable level if he could just catch a break.

The archer's finger was just about to drop onto one of the keys when the door flew open breaking his concentration. He didn't have time to be disappointed that it didn't work as Fury stormed into the room, moving straight to the cabinet in the corner and pulling out an expensive looking bottle of whisky. Not sparing time for a glass, the Director took a swig straight from the bottle before taking it back to his intimidating leather chair.

"What the hell happened to you?" asked Clint, marveling over the impressive black eye the director was sporting. At half glance it looked like he was wearing two eye patches.

"I brought you some ice, sir," offered Hill trailing in through the door. She handed the pack over, standing impassively in front of the desk. Fury took it gratefully, applying it to his already puffy eye. "Wow, Steve really did a number on you," she stated, keeping all traces of a smirk from her face.

Clint couldn't help it, he burst out laughing. On its own it probably wouldn't have been as funny as he was finding it, but the stress, frustration and every other gamete of human emotion that seemed to be sparking through him all at once just pushed it over the top. It was a much needed release that seemed to keep the rising sense of dread and panic at bay.

* * *

As up to speed as Clint was going to get given his limited ability to collect facts, he left Fury's office to wander aimlessly down the halls. SHIELD bases all over the world had felt like home, no matter how much or little time he spent there. It was the first real home he had, the first time he actually belonged somewhere and felt like people wanted him there. Now it was foreign, like being in a former girlfriend's place long after the relationship ended. The best years of his life had happened within SHIELD constructed walls, now they were representative of the prison he felt he was in; allowed to know about the outside world but not allowed to a member.

"Did you hear about Barton?" came a voice from around the corner.

Curiosity spiked within Clint; it was hard to ignore hearing your name dropped in conversation, even if you didn't know the people uttering it. Trainees were prone to gossip, usually stories leaning to the sensational side but every once in awhile, you could find a nugget of gold beneath their outlandish tales.

"Yeah. Apparently they're pulling out all the bells and whistles for the memorial service today," added the young blonde in the SHIELD issued tracksuit.

"It's a shame," added the smaller man, who looked impossibly young. Clint doubted if the kid was even old enough to shave let alone don a uniform. Had he ever been that young?

The fourth group member snorted. "It's about god damn time."

"Stop, Mike." The woman's whose voice had first caught Clint's attention frowned, crossing her arms across her chest.

"What? It's the truth Marcy. They should have put one in the back of his head after New York," answered Mike with a conviction that only comes from youth.

"We don't know everything that happened. Obviously, the Director feels he didn't deserve to be held accountable." The smaller guy took a side step, moving closer to Marcy.

"He slaughtered what, fifty plus agents and almost destroyed the helicarrier. I think that's all we need to know. Traitors deserve to be shot, the guy finally got what was coming to him," declared Mike.

Barton didn't make the conscious decision to walk away, but his feet carried him down the hall. He'd thought he'd put it all behind him, earned a new beginning. He knew no one would ever forget but it had seemed like his coworkers had moved past it. Apparently they wanted to bury the hatchet in his back.

It wasn't like they were wrong; he'd shared those same feelings in the aftermath. There were nights he still woke up believing that sentiment but it had felt like the bridge to mend the chasm between him and SHIELD had been under construction.

Clearly he was still an outsider, left in the cold but allowed to look through the window to the world he had once been a valued part of. His mind drifted to his teammates as he numbly sauntered away from the group of recruits. Did the team feel this way too? Was he just a means to an end where the benefits of having a sniper in the group outweighed their personal feelings towards the archer? Was this how Thor felt as a member of the team? The god was a valued member but being from Asgard, was still separate. The common threads of human existence didn't weave through his soul, leaving him floundering in the face of pop culture and the human condition. Sure Steve had a seventy year gap to make up for but the basic of human nature fostered by Earth's culture was still there. Thor was… Thor was from a different planet.

Barton stopped as the thought sparked something he hadn't considered before. Thor was from Asgard, a world gifted with magic and who knew what else. If the people here couldn't see him, maybe someone from another planet could. With desperation Clint popped back to the tower to search for his last shot.


	10. Chapter 10

It was after sunset when some members of the Avengers solemnly walked off the elevator to the common area main floor. Clint would have admired how lovely everyone looked if it wasn't for the occasion that forced them to dress up. They looked tired as they flopped down on the high end couches and recliners, loosening ties and kicking off heels.

Jane sat curled up next to Thor, arms laced through his. Pepper sat on the arm of the couch, her usual perch when Tony was around to be closer to him; a habit that seemed to exist even when the billionaire was noticeably absent. Bruce and Steve sat on opposite ends of the other couch, slumped and defeated. A suffocating silence hung around all of their throats.

Barton blocked out all the suffering and strife, zeroing in on the thunder god. If this worked, he'd have all the time in the world to console them and brighten their dreary day. "Thor, come on buddy. Tell me you can see me."

"Is there anything that has to be done tomorrow?" asked Pepper.

Steve shook his head. "No. I told Hill any reports and questions can wait awhile. We're on stand down until further notice. Give everyone a chance to grieve."

Clint bit his lower lip. Thor was looking straight through him like he wasn't even there. "Thor!" The archer waved his hands in front of the large man's face.

"I have to head back tomorrow, but maybe you could come with me," asked Jane, lifting her head off Thor's shoulder.

The god glanced towards the Captain. Getting an approving nod, he said, "Aye. I would enjoy that greatly."

"No, no, no. Come on Thor, I need you to be able to see me." Clint's forehead scrunched up in concentration, his hands hovering over the god's chest. He had managed to touch the desk, he needed to touch Thor, to shove him and make him take notice that Clint was there.

Barton closed his eyes, unable to bear watching what was about to happen. He leaned forward, closing the distance between him and his friend. His fingers felt nothing.

* * *

**Two Weeks Later**

"JARVIS, start the clock," ordered Tony, grabbing a screwdriver off the table.

Clint cracked one eye open to glance in Stark's direction from the table he was lying on. He'd always known Stark could be a little obsessive, but having to actually witness it for hours on end was something else. Not that there was much else to do. Every attempt to get anyone to notice him had fallen on deaf ears. Focusing on everyone else kept the focus off the archer's current situation. Deflection, he wasn't proud of it, but he needed it.

"Whenever you're ready, sir," responded the AI.

Stark squinted his reddened and tired eyes at the rebuilt model of the device recovered from the building. With a nod, he sucked in a breath before attacking the bomb. With deft fingers he removed the access panel and began the sequence to disarm it. It was rebuilt to spec, taking in account the damage done by the gunman's careless aim, minus the ability to actually explode. It was exactly what Barton would have faced.

"Done!" he declared, dropping the tool back on the counter. The ding of metal hitting metal echoed through the lab, which once had been full of life and brilliance, now full of living ghosts and dark despair.

"One minute, forty-five seconds," reported JARVIS. "You shaved five seconds off from last time."

"It's not going to make a difference, give it up Tony," muttered Clint. The billionaire would never hear him, they never did, but he couldn't stay silent. Sometimes talking, even if it was just for himself was enough to keep the despair and tentacles of insanity from wrapping around him.

"Hmmm. Add the time it would have taken me to reach the building and log it. Cross reference it with the actual timeline of events. Would I have made it JARVIS?"

Barton let out a long sigh. "You're still seven seconds short."

"Sir, if I may…"

"You may not. Would I have made it in time?"

"No sir. You would have needed seven more seconds after the time you left the control van, to successfully deactivate the device. However, you wouldn't have had the obsessive practice at disarming it as you have now, thus adding several seconds to your time."

"Pressure's a good motivator." Stark reset the model device back to armed. "Seven seconds huh? Restart the clock JARVIS."

"JARVIS, can you turn the lights up to normal?" asked Bruce, having braved the lab threshold.

"Oh, thank god!" huffed the archer, rolling off the table to land gracefully on his feet. He wandered over to Bruce, the habit of being in people's orbit during conversation still firmly ingrained even if he was no longer included in anything going on around him. "Please tell me you're here to drag Tony out of here kicking and screaming?"

"When was the last time you slept, Tony?" he asked coming to stand next to the inventor who was diligently tinkering with a model of the bomb on the table. There was no answer. "Tony," he tried again.

"Bruce is talking to you Iron Ass," snapped Barton. He would give anything to be able to interact with the world around him and here Stark was actively shutting it all out.

"Huh? What?" Stark muttered looking around bleary eyed and a little dazed.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Oh. I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"You keep this up, it will be sooner than you think." It was a firm warning, wrapped in the best intentions and a selfish plea for the team not to have to bury someone again so soon, if ever.

"I _have_ to do this Bruce."

"It's not going to bring him back. It doesn't matter if you can disarm that thing blindfolded and with one arm tied behind your back, it doesn't change what happened there."

"It's _my_ bomb! I built it and I should have been there to figure this out. They weren't aiming for Barton, they were aiming for me," shouted Tony, desperately needing Bruce to see the importance of what had happened.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard today, and I've been hanging around you all day," injected the archer.

"What are you talking about?" asked Bruce, confusion clearly written on his face.

"JARVIS, replay the comm. chatter," ordered Tony.

_"Now why don't you let the kid go and call it a day?"_

_"This little shit's may ticket out of here, but you don't have to worry about that. We were aiming for Stark, but I guess you'll do."_

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Bang._

_Thump._

_"Gahhhh."_

_"Are you hurt anywhere?"_

Clint wasn't sure which was worse, having actually lived that conversation or watching his friends listen to it, knowing the final outcome of that day. He hadn't given much thought to what the gunman had proclaimed; a flicker of concern had ignited in him at the time, one of his friends had been threatened but he had been more focused on the kid and the bomb and the bullets. Now it seemed like the most important thing in the world. Charlie had tried to take Tony out; failure only meant that he would try again and this time he might succeed.

Bruce listened as the AI replayed part of a conversation that had seemed so long ago. Even knowing the general order of events, he still flinched at the gunshots.

"You hear that?" demanded Stark. "That asshole told Barton straight up, it was meant for me. They wanted me in that building. And you know what, had I been part of that mission like I should have been sans leg, Rogers would have sent me to disarm that one once we found it, since the SHIELD team would have been in place to tackle the first one. He told Barton and that idiot still stayed. He stayed and made sure I didn't come." Distain dripped off every word.

"So the whole thing was to target you? Why?" Banner asked skeptically, not really prepared to buy into the whole conspiracy theory aspect.

"I don't know." Stark looked defeated, tired.

Bruce shook his head. "Let it go for now. We're in no shape to get into a war with a guy we know nothing about." He walked back towards the door, shuffling his feet; the energy to do anything with vigor long having left him. "Get some sleep."

"This wasn't your fault Stark. But you do need to figure out how to get to Charlie, 'cause he's coming for you and I really don't need you joining me," said Barton taking a seat next to the billionaire.

* * *

Natasha pulled open the dresser drawer and rummaged through wrinkled shirts until she found the one she was looking for. They had all once been folded neatly and tucked away for future use by their owner but in her haste the first night she found herself there, she had left them strewn haphazardly within the drawer.

Nothing was ever disturbed besides the one drawer and the bed. The curtains were pulled back enough to let the silver glow of the moon and florescent lights of the city tempering the darkness. Balling the worn t-shirt, threadbare and logo vanished, she clutched it close to her chest and crawled across the bedspread to curl up in the very middle.

It was an act Barton was very familiar with. When the world became too much, and one of them was on the verge of breaking under its tremendous weight, they would seek comfort in the other, relying on their strength to hold all the pieces together. He could use some of her strength now, to have those deceivingly delicate hands caress his shoulders and offer a willing shoulder. They were both alone in a way they hadn't been since Clint brought her into SHIELD.

Clint curled up beside her, leaning against the head board. "Talk to me Tasha." Being an observer to life was hard, but not being able to offer comfort to those that were suffering because of him was harder. To the Avengers, he had died but to Barton the opposite was true. He missed group dinners and evenings spent trying to watch classic movies that Steve had missed. He missed the easy banter that was now replaced with one-sided conversation.

"I'm sorry Natasha. I promised you we'd grow old together and I had to go back on that promise. I wanted to keep it, I wanted it so badly but I couldn't let forty kids pay for a fictitious white picket fence. Don't ever doubt that I love you."

Natasha buried her face in the soft fabric and inhaled deeply. It still smelled like Clint, a combination of after shave, shampoo, lazy Sundays and a life well lived.

It brought a tear to his eye. That shirt was the physical embodiment of one of the greatest moments in his life. It was an omen that things could turn around, that there was better; all he had to do was go for it. The archer knew it had seen better days; other shirts had long been retired before making it to half the shabby state of this one but he just couldn't part with it. He loved that shirt, as much as she hated it. Watching her cling to it like a weeping child was a punch to the gut.

"You need to stop this Natasha. You need to let me go." The words hurt more than any words had ever hurt before. He knew she needed to move on, that dwelling like this wasn't good or healthy but part of him didn't want to let her go. What would happen to him if she moved on, if they all moved on? He wished them well, all the happiness the world could offer but never in his wildest dreams did he think he was going to have to watch from the shadows. Could he stay and haunt them while he watched them have everything he'd ever wanted for himself?

Ever so gently he rested his hand on her hip and even though he knew she couldn't feel it, that he couldn't feel her warmth beneath his hand, it helped to ground him in the vast void that had claimed his soul.

* * *

Sleep wasn't as generous as it had been before that fateful day. Rogers often found himself engaged in battle with his blankets, trying to catch the tail feathers of rest. Tonight he found himself on the archery range. It seemed desolate, clinical and cold, like the warmth and spark that had resided in it had died along with Barton.

Clint raised his head off his knee, surprised that someone had wandered into what had been his kingdom. Even if he couldn't hold his bow, feel the tension in the string as he pulled it back, he still took comfort in being in the space. Steve looked lost, on the verge of complete collapse and yet, Barton knew no matter what was weighing the man down he find the strength and determination to carry on; he was Captain America after all.

"Can't sleep?" posed Clint. It was habit to make conversation, to reach out and try and connect with the people that were a part of his life. Even knowing he wouldn't receive an answer didn't diminish the disappointment born out of the silence. "Me either, apparently I don't need it," he offered with a shrug. "This is a good place to think though."

The archer knew he would never be busted for the intrusion but it still felt like a violation to be present in what would have been a private moment if Steve had known he had company. With a grace and silence that had served him so well in life, he made his way to the door to leave Rogers with his thoughts and inner strife.

"They'll be okay. You'll get them through this Cap and then they'll get you through it," added Clint pausing at the threshold. It was a cliché thought and sentiment wanting to leave someone with everything he should have said before but somehow it still felt like it needed to be said, even if he was the only one that would hear it.


	11. Chapter 11

Tony sat hunched over his workstation staring bitterly at the schematic hovering in blue light. The arrow Clint had designed sat in front, the archer's vision finally realized, and now there was no one to make the work of art fly.

Stark's incessant babbling was ying to Clint's natural taciturn nature's yang. He'd seen the inventor fixate before, but there was always liveliness to it, music blaring or castles made out of disposable used coffee cups. The silence was sobering and troublesome. Clint's growing concern for his teammate couldn't detract from the beauty the man had created.

His bow and arrows were weapons, metal, fibreglass and other materials forged to make the deadly instruments but there was a beauty and elegance as well. A well made and maintained bow or an unique and rare arrow were to be treasured and appreciated, even if he was the only one that saw the exquisiteness in their lines. "It's beautiful," Barton said in awe, gazing upon the masterpiece Stark had given birth to. "She'll fly true."

There was a certain amount of jealousy bubbling within Clint. The billionaire had spent so much time crafting the arrow _for_ Clint and he was never going to feel the weight of it in his hand or the thrill of release as he let her fly. With no one to use it, it would be set on the shelf, slowly being pushed to the back by things more important until it lay in the shadows completely forgotten, like the archer would be. Watching his friends dwell and ache in the wake of his death was hard and he wasn't so much of a bastard that he wished that he would continue to be a thought that always plagued them, but what was he going to when they did move on?

It felt like self sabotage, willing them to find the sunlight again when he couldn't follow them there. For them to be happy, he had to be forgotten and he wanted them to be happy. It would be one thing if he was just a memory of a loved one, carried with and revelled in but lost in whatever limbo he had been sentenced to meant that he was being left behind. Since he'd never been one for self preservation, Clint decided his efforts as futile as they were would be directed towards helping the team move on.

"I can see you thinking from here, Tony." Clint walked around the table to stand next to the billionaire. There was an impressive amount of research spread across the table; a million facts and none of them more helpful than listening to the weather report while standing outside. Stark had pulled every SHIELD file that could possibly have anything related to Charlie and a few that weren't. It was a thoroughness Coulson would be proud of and not the half-cocked, rush in where angels fear to tread boldness Stark was famous for.

"JARVIS," called the inventor.

"Yes sir?"

"I want you to run a search for any signs of Stark Industry weapons being used. I don't care by whom. "

A sinking feeling swelled in Clint's gut. "Tony what are you going to do?" Tony was about to step off the metaphorical edge into obsession and revenge with payment being his soul.

"Sir?" questioned the AI, unsure if his creator understood the complexity and futility of such a request.

"Stane was selling them to a lot of people that shouldn't have gotten their hands on them. I'm going to make it right JARVIS. Besides, Charlie got the 38-16A-7 from somewhere, maybe in the process of cleaning up my mess, we can find this son of a bitch."

"What are you doing?" came a voice from behind Tony.

"Oh thank god Steve!" The voice of reason and Clint's only real chance of dissuading Stark stood boldly at the door. "You got to stop him from pulling some hair brained stunt," cautioned the archer.

Tony flinched turning around sharply to see Steve standing there. Feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Tony asked, "What do you mean?"

Steve took a good look around the lab which was becoming more of a bottle depot that a place for scientific research. "No one's seen you for days and JARIS says you haven't left this room," stated Rogers.

"I've been working Rogers. Someone has to do something to get this guy," snarled Tony. "Not all of us are comfortable sitting on the sidelines."

"I did what I thought was necessary. We need time," defended Steve.

"How's Pepper doing?" asked Steve, trying for a more neutral subject.

"I don't know. She's buried herself in some sort of project... some charity thing in Barton's name. An after school program for underprivileged kids, so they don't run away and join the circus or some shit," replied Tony, never taking his eyes off of the arrow head he was working on.

The statement piqued Clint's interest. "Really? That's... that's nice." The list of people that had ever thought highly of the archer was small to say the least. The work that he did for SHIELD saving lives was shrouded in anonymity, not that he did it for the accolades to begin with. But to know that his legacy was going to be worth more than a half empty bottle of Jack like his father, gave his current predicament a small glowing ember of bearableness. Someone had found something good in the wake of this tragedy, giving a monumental gift in his absence. It was a chance to help people while he was regulated to the sidelines, even if it was Stark's money that was going to fund it.

Rogers smiled fondly. "That's good."

The billionaire's head shot up, a twisted and sarcastic smile warping his face to something almost unrecognizable. "Isn't it just fan-tast-ic." He snatched the half empty bottle and took a swig, the formality of pouring a glass long since passed.

"Don't be like that Tony, he just wants to help. They're all hurting too," soothed Barton. "You guys need to stick together, not tear at each other's throats."

Steve automatically reached over and pried the bottle out of Tony's hands, drops of scotch splashing on the floor. "I think you've had enough," cautioned Rogers, in his Captain America voice.

"I'll tell you when I've had enough _Steven_. You may be old enough to be my father, but last time I checked, you weren't."

Stark made to grab his bottle back, but Steve raised his hand out of Tony's reach. Gently, but with enough force to get his point across, he pushed the inventor out of the way and stepped over to the sink. The billionaire made no attempt to reclaim his prize as Steve poured its contents down the drain.

Like a bitter child, Tony spat, "Yes, pouring my booze out, that'll solve things. I've more money than god; I'll just send a lackey to get more, something better. Hell, I'll have it flow straight from the tap."

"Just stop it you two!" Barton reached over to grab Stark and pull him back, to separate the two before things escalated past the point of no return. The force he was going to use to redirect Tony pulled the archer off his feet as his hand failed to make contact with anything, moving through his friend as though he wasn't there. He landed on the floor, panting hard and fighting back the feeling of complete impotence at the situation.

The blond let out a long sigh. "Don't do this Tony."

"Hey, _you_ came down here."

"When you're ready to talk, you know where to find us," offered the Captain before giving up and leaving the lab.

Clint stayed there, sitting on the floor watching Stark go back to what he was doing before Steve and the real world came storming into the darkness. He felt tired, more tired than he ever remembered being. Barton was fighting a losing battle against himself. Resilience or some desperate need to punish himself, he just couldn't throw in the towel and go gently into that good night; he once promised Phil that he'd fight, bite, claw and scratch until his final breath.

"You need to quit drinking Tony, you're better than this. My father solved all of his problems at the bottom of a bottle too. It might have helped him for a moment but we felt the repercussions long after the bottle was done. You don't want to be that person Tony. You need to talk to Steve, the rest of the team. Don't shut them out because they need you too."

Stark sat silently at the table, rolling the newly made arrow in his fingertips.

* * *

**One Month Later**

Clint watched Natasha slink in through the side entrance and through the lobby. The concept of staying in his apartment within Stark Tower somehow seemed pointless when he couldn't interact with anything and clearly didn't to sleep or eat. Even being trapped on the sidelines, watching life pass him by, it still got lonely when the lights went out. Not in the lobby though. There was always something coming along: small talk amongst the night watch, late night deliveries or gossip from the cleaning staff.

To anyone else she would have went unnoticed and to the few that would have spotted her, even fewer would have noticed to slight limp she was hiding. Clint closed his eyes and let his head thump against the wall. He was getting better at maintaining useless contact with pointless objects; a cruel twist to his fate; the things that mattered were out of his reach.

He knew where she was going before she even pressed the button for the elevator. This was the Natasha he had first brought into SHIELD, reckless and punishing herself for some unrealistic crime. They were two peas in a pod because he climbed to his feet and sauntered over to stand beside her, knowing he would have to watch her patch herself together and be able to do nothing to help, his own punishment for some un-absolvable sin.

Leaving the lights off, Natasha made her way to the supply cabinet in Stark's makeshift medical room. Gingerly pulling her shirt off, she began her well rehearsed dance of tending to her wounds. With deft fingers she threaded the needle and began to suturing the gash in her side. Natasha had taken to forgoing any type of freezing; pain reminded her that she was alive.

The pain also drowned out Clint's voice. The constant commentary from the archer telling her to stop, that she didn't need to do this just created fractures in her resolve.

"Natasha."

Romanoff's hand flinched as her head snapped up. "Bruce."

Stepping further into the room, he pulled up a stool and sat down beside her. Taking the needle and gauze, he asked, "How long are you going to keep doing this?"

"I was just…"

"Don't lie to me," snapped the doctor.

Clint's head snapped up. Bruce went to great lengths to keep his anger in check and this was a slip that shouldn't have happened, a step towards a cliff that neither one needed to move towards.

Natasha looked Bruce dead in the eyes. "I miss calculated a dismount in the gym." There was an edge to her voice, like she dared Banner to challenge it.

Bruce finished tying off the thread before slamming the instruments on the table. "We both know you're more graceful than that. Even if it happened once, you're honestly going to stand there and tell me it's happened eight other times? And that's just based on what I can see. Tell me Natasha, what kind of injuries are you sporting on the rest of your body."

It was a relief to hear someone else had been keeping tabs on his fiery redhead, that the thread of comradery was still woven through them.

She grabbed her shirt off of the table and put it on, ignoring the way her fresh stitches pulled. "What I do, is none of your business," spat Romanoff.

"We're still a team. What happens to you is all of our business," countered Banner, his voice rising to counter the bite in hers.

"Leave it alone," she shouted, shoving the other man hard.

"Natasha, what the hell are you doing!" screamed Clint, moving to step in between them.

Bruce took a step back under the force, but not willing to relent, he moved even closer to the angry assassin. Natasha immediately started throwing punches; blow after blow landing on his chest. It was a recipe for a Hulk out, but she didn't stop and Bruce never his back. He grit his teeth and let her hate and frustration pour out, determine to keep the green guy in check, and surprisingly he agreed.

"I hate you," she screamed, not pausing in her strikes. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate him." Her voice finally cracked and with it all the energy she was using to keep herself going. Bruce's arms wrapped around her and they both sank to the floor. "How could he just leave me here alone?" she sobbed.

Barton felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate. It was like she had punched him in the gut. Natasha was hurting because of him and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. Gently he placed his hand on her shoulder hoping against hope that that she could take some comfort in the small gesture and know that it was alright to let go.

"Killing yourself won't bring him back," whispered Bruce.

"I've spent so much of my life trying to wipe the slate clean, to make up for everything and be worthy of the chance Clint took on me, that was my purpose. And when we were done, and the bad guys were finished, and I proved myself deserving of his love and devotion, we were going to be like normal people. Grow old on a porch and watch the kids play. Even though riding off into the sunset wasn't really going to happen, I just don't know how to go on without him."

"What you're doing, it's not the answer. He didn't do it to hurt you and given any other options, he would have chosen to walk away that day. You can be mad at the injustice of it all, mad at the unfairness but don't hate him and don't hate yourself. He wouldn't want that for you."

They sat there huddling on the floor together, long into the night, Bruce's arms wrapped tightly, holding her together. "Sometimes I think he's here."

"I'm right here Tash," he whispered wrapping his arms around her but making no contact. "I won't leave you alone."


	12. Chapter 12

The tower was quiet. It was thick like a blanket smothering everyone residing within. The depressing atmosphere had become a staple, becoming the new normal and that made it even more depressing. Steve wandered through the common rooms, chasing the shadows of what was once the tenuous embrace of a makeshift family.

The soft backsplash lighting was on in the kitchen painting it in warm dim light. A place that had once been the heart of the tower, and more recently a cold forgotten space, was occupied. All five Avengers looked up as Steve walked in the room, their conversation falling silent at his apparent intrusion. "Guys, Natasha," he greeted self-consciously.

"Glad you could join us Steve," offered Bruce, looking a little relieved that someone else was joining their conversation. Clint shared the doctor's relief. These weren't rational things being planned and someone had to be a voice of reason if the archer couldn't share the holes and traps he saw in their plans.

Romanoff was a stone statue, more fixated on the marble countertop than anything else going on in the room. Thor, who had somehow gotten the memo when Rogers hadn't, seemed to be in line with whatever line Stark was pushing, that Bruce clearly didn't seem to agree with.

"What are we talking about?" asked the Captain, trying not to feel left out, to feel even more alone than he already did.

"The topic of most of our discussions, Charlie," snarled Tony, hostile and bitter in turn.

The blond grit his teeth together, clenching his jaw. "We've been over this. We don't know enough about him to take any action against him. We just don't know what we're up against."

"I got a lead on the whereabouts of some of his hired thugs, I say we start there and work our way up," countered Tony.

"What if they don't give him up? What if it's a trap?" argued Rogers.

"If you're afraid, you can stay here but trust me, when we get through with them, they won't be protecting their boss." There was hate in Stark's eyes, dark and deep. The sentiment was echoed in Thor.

"Take it down a notch Stark," warned Clint, leveling a glare of his own.

Steve could feel the situation spiraling out of control. They were on a wire, one false step was going to send anyone of them tumbling into darkness, never to emerge. "This isn't how this team operates."

"I'm going to go out and get some revenge. Who knows, it might help me sleep better," declared Stark, storming towards the door.

"Tony, don't do this." The archer had seen many good men lose themselves along the path of good intentions. This was the beginning of the end. It felt like a personal failure to be the catalyst to the destruction of the Avengers.

Steve clamped his hand down on the billionaire's shoulder, forcing him to stop. "This team isn't about vengeance. We're not in the business of revenge."

"No, but we do avenge. It's kind of our deal. Who's with me?"

"Aye, I would take great pleasure in inflicting vengeance on those who have stolen our brethren," announced Thor, leaping off his stool in eager anticipation.

"Thor, you better than anyone should know this isn't going to solve anything," countered Barton.

Bruce rolled his eyes and took a step closer towards the door. They were an angry mob calling for blood; monsters didn't do so well in those situations. Natasha's icy gaze was firmly fixed on the same spot on the table as it had been through the whole conversation; her deathly red lips as silent as the grave.

"Looks like some of us are Cap." A vindicated smile washed over Stark's face. He wasn't completely alone in this idea. Thor wasn't one to back a loser, and with him on his side, the idea couldn't be as insane as it sounded.

There would be no stopping them if Steve couldn't come up with a convincing argument. There was a small list of people that Rogers wanted to wrap his hands around their throats and squeeze until the light went out of their eyes, but then that line that separated the good guys from the bad guys would have been crossed. They couldn't defend the helpless if they were no better than those they were defending against. He was the team leader, it was his job to protect his people, even their souls. "Barton wouldn't want this."

Clint had to make them listen, to see reason. He could feel his frustration burning through every muscle. His rage found voice. "Just stop arguing!"

"He's dead, he doesn't get a vote anymore." Tony's voice rose with every word. "We're tired of sitting around doing nothing while these people get away..."

Clint turned towards the counter he had been leaning against and swept his arms across it in a fit of anger. In a perfect world, the objects cluttered across the counter would spill to the floor in a loud clang, silencing everyone in the room, giving him the floor to speak. Instead his arms went through everything, leaving it untouched, except not _everything_. The top of his hand knocked one of the frying pans off its hook.

Stark's words were cut off with a giant clang as a large frying pan tumbled off the wall, crashing to the floor. The billionaire glared at it as though the tower that he designed and helped build was siding with Rogers. Everyone turned briefly, looking for the source but nothing was there.

Clint stood there in shock, staring at his hand. Tempting fate, he tried again but no luck. It was a fluke but enough to give him hope. He could impact things around.

A little calmer, he spat, "And does it hurt to be so self-righteous all the time?"

"Tony." It was a half felt warning, that both knew Steve wouldn't act on.

"No, I'm serious. I was considering it, but now I'm not so sure."

"I don't know what to do! Is that what you want to hear?" The scream echoed off the walls, sucking all the sound out of the room. The damn holding in all of Rogers' frustration had broken.

Of all the people he actually wanted to gut, Steve wasn't on the list. Watching someone else in pain, sucked all the air out of Tony, but apologise wasn't in his vast vocabulary. "Normally, I would take pleasure in your ineptitude, but not this time." It had killed the mood to be reminded that each one wasn't the only one hurting. With nothing left to say, Tony stormed out of the room, Thor hot on his heels.

Steve looked towards the door Bruce had been hovering near to find that the doctor had vanished at some point in the conversation. Looking back at Natasha, who was now staring at the pan on the floor, he asked, "Are you going to say anything?"

"No."

Barton couldn't stand to be there one more moment. He fled, appeared on the roof, an act of cowardice he wasn't proud of, but he needed the space. He was watching everything he cared about fall apart and there was nothing he could do about it. Angry tears stung his eyes as tip his head to the sky and yelled, "I don't need this 'it's a wonderful life' bullshit."

He had never been religious and wasn't about to start now; he didn't have a lot of scruples but not being a hypocrite wasn't one he was going to sacrifice now. The universe at large was fair game though. "If this is some cosmic lesson in irony, consider it learned. If this is some sort of punishment or slight by karma, innocent people are being hurt. The team doesn't deserve this!"

There was no answer, no cosmic reverse of events, just the world as it was. Clint wasn't sure if he was disappointed or not that some magical Asgardian didn't crawl out of the woodwork or that Loki didn't appear to gloat. How bad were things is Loki appearing was going to make it better?

* * *

Tony was going to be damned if anyone got to say 'I told you so,' even if they had all been right. His lead had proven another dead end and while it had felt good to get out there with Thor and let their fists do the talking for a change, that empty feeling was still lingering.

Still, he was determined to fake it until he made it as he and Thor touched down on the flight deck of the helicarrier; Thor more gracefully than the audible thud of cold metal impacting the sturdy surface. All eyes zeroed in on them as they traipsed across the deck dragging behind them the men they had apprehended.

It didn't take long for the Director to head them off. "What are you doing Stark?"

The irritated tone had long lost its effectiveness on the billionaire. "Your job." He pushed the man he had by the scruff of his shirt forward. Thor followed suit with a please smirk on his face.

"If I want and or need your help I'll let you know, until then we don't need your help with whatever this is," replied Fury pointing at the men crumpled on the deck.

"Then you tell me what you're doing to find Charlie?" snapped Iron Man. "Cause it seems like everyone is content to sit on their hands while this guy gets away with it."

"I'm not in the business of settling your personal vendettas."

"He was one of your soldiers, surely you wish to honor his spirit," injected Thor.

"Someone will pay for Barton's death but I have a bigger picture to look at. Both of you go back to Stark Tower and stand down. This isn't what I brought you people in for. You need to stop before I have to stop you. Neither one of us will enjoy that."

Tony opened his mouth to protest but Fury cut him off at the knees. "I believe you CEO has a few matters she wants to discuss, namely your recent activities. You wouldn't want to anger your girl Stark."

Thor frowned as the inventor turned on his heels. "Let's go Thor, we're not going to get anywhere here."

The god gripped his hammer tightly. There was no battle here yet there was tension in the air. Something had to be done, but none seemed to know what. When his mother had died, he and Loki had set out to avenge her. It had cost Loki his life, but they had succeeded and in that glory raised Loki to a higher level than traitor. His defeat over the dark elves had been an act worthy of both family members. Misgard was different; he didn't know how he should proceed to honor his fallen brethren but neither did anyone else.


	13. Chapter 13

There were faster and easier ways to do this, hell Tony probably employed several people whose sole function within the corporation was to do this, but his pent up energy had to go somewhere. Today it meant picking up Pepper's dress from the drycleaners. Mostly it was a cover to escape the confines of the Tower and Pott's watchful eye ever since Rhodes decided to play dirty and bring Pepper into his business. A legit excuse to slip away meant he had the freedom to indulge in some nefarious activities without the guilt trip later. He made a mental note to stop hanging around spies so often; their behavior was like an infectious disease. It was like Vegas, if Pepper didn't know he was doing it, then it never happened.

Tony stopped as he caught his reflection in the window of a local coffee shop. The whole concept of incognito was foreign to the billionaire that required the spotlight to breath but he couldn't comprehend how his attempts to go unnoticed didn't draw attention. A baggy hoodie, sun glasses and cargo pants in the most horrible color scheme imaginable weren't his usual attire but the sheer awfulness of it should have drawn curious stares and onlookers to stop in their tracks, not embrace him as one of their own, regulating him as one of the sheep mulling around.

He was about to continue on his way to meet some low level whistleblower who had information regarding a stockpile of SI weaponry when he caught a glimpse of someone very familiar. The weapons could wait, interrogation opportunities only presented themselves once and a while. Stark pulled the café door open, a happy jingle announcing his arrival.

Tony slid uninvited into the chair opposite his target. If Stark didn't know what he was capable of, the casual weekend attire would make him seem harmless and ordinary.

"Um, okay, sit down?"huffed Brody, looking confused and irritated all at once.

"We need to talk," snapped Stark, forgoing all pleasantries. He'd never prided himself on his social graces but the few he had were shelved completely for this engagement.

The agent glanced briefly at the door with longing before sliding his newspaper and coffee cup to the side and dropping his elbows on the table. "Three years of undercover work about to be blown, but what the hell, Tony Stark wants to talk."

"We could have done this somewhere else but when I find an office that doesn't deny your existence, you don't take my calls."

"Despite your genetically ingrained belief, you are not the most important person in the world."

Tony offered an indignant snort. "That's funny. A SHEILD agent with a sense of humor and a modicum of fashion sense, I've discovered a unicorn."

Brody rolled his eyes. It was one thing to humor the man when the Avengers needed him to babysit, but stroking the man's ego during an operational op was more than Brody was willing to give for idle chitchat. "Fuck off Stark. Some of us have actual work to do." It was a warning, an underlying threat that neither knew if Rylan would follow through with.

Tired of SHIELD railroading and dances of incompetence to hide half baked and ethically questionable results, Tony slammed his hands down on the table. "Maybe you should have done the work before Barton walked into that death trap!"

All eyes turned to look at the cause of the loud outburst. To Brody's credit the man didn't even flinch. He started at the inventor, reading every line of his body as though he was looking into a crystal ball to see every moment of the man's past and every possible point in his future. Very calmly he reached up and tapped the little hidden comm. nestled in his ear. "Stand down. Throw a few uniforms in the area and see if we can't dissuade the target from showing. Maybe he'll pull out and I can set something up for another time." With well contained and precise hostility he turned to Tony. "You know I could have you shot?"

"That would make you look guilty."

"Guilty of what?"

"I don't know. Romanoff doesn't like you."

"Romanoff doesn't like anyone. So what exactly are you accusing me of?"

Tony wasn't sure he had an answer for the agent. He knew he was just taking shots in the dark but the vital piece of the puzzle that was going to give him some direction on how to proceed was still shrouded in darkness. "Your guys were first on the scene, you should have known there was another team in the second building."

Brody seemed to mull the words over. "You're probably right."

Tony froze. Attacking someone wasn't as much fun if they didn't fight back. He'd been prepared to tear apart that holier than thou attitude SHEILD agents seemed to get when handed their pretty little badges, but Brody's agreement took the wind right out of Stark's sails.

"Maybe we should have searched every building in a five block radius? Twenty? Hell, maybe we should have kept a closer eye on the people involved and arrested them earlier, before they did anything. Maybe we should just cut to the chase and shoot anyone that disagrees with whatever line we're selling before any ideas spark that could provide free thought. Where would you like me to stop?" snarled Brody. It was a calm and collected anger, contained in a perfectly still demeanor, but no less intimidating than someone who stormed around and unleashed their uncontrolled violence.

"Let's get one thing straight Stark, Barton was my friend and I would love to be left alone in a room with the people responsible for that bomb. How's that going by the way, finding the people responsible?" Tony didn't even get a chance to voice his question, his face said it all for him. "You're not the only one that can keep tabs on people."

It felt like the worst failing in the world, but he had to admit, "I'm not as far along as I'd like to be."

"Ahmm. So answer me this," Brody leaned closer and dropped his voice, an all know gleam in his eye, "what's the point to a bomb that selectively deep-fries people?"

The point, in all its crassness, did spark Tony's attention. He'd been so focused on Barton that he forgot about the other person in the room. "When is a bomb not a bomb?" he mumbled to himself.

"What?" asked Brody, perplexed by the billionaire personal monologue.

"Never mind." Tony stood up. "I have to go, but you've been helpful." He turned to take his leave but tossed over his shoulder, " Well, no you haven't, but I think I have something to work with."

* * *

Tony burst through the door to Banner's personal lab with an energy he hadn't had in weeks. "Bruce! Bruce!"

The doctor pushed his chair away from the desk, letting the wheels carry him past the bookshelf so he could lay eyes on his friend. "Yeah?"

"When is a bomb not a bomb?"

"Umm?" It was such a three-sixty from the brooding alcoholic that had been camping out in Tony's personal sanctuary that Bruce had to take a moment to run through his list of things to check for signs of a psychotic break.

Stark didn't let the doctor's confusion slow him down, the words poured off his lips like water. "When it's a misfire, but it wasn't a misfire, it did exactly what it was supposed to. The bomb worked exactly like it was supposed to so the variable has to be something else. I've been so focused on what went wrong with the bomb that I wasn't paying attention to Barton's crispy friend."

Banner had to suck in a breath and will his lunch not to reappear at the horrible image Stark had conjured.

"The modification changed the explosive energy to destroy only organic material, thus leaving structures unaffected. Perfect, if you want to kill a lot of people and take what they have without risk of destroying what they have. What better way to steal the arc reactor right out of my chest."

"Right, we established that that was along the lines of what they were trying to do, but Tony, everyone in the room died, it worked," he pointed out, trying to put reality firmly under the billionaire's feet without popping his bubble of happiness.

"No it didn't," corrected Tony, "at least not on Barton. The gunman is a charred mess, exactly what you'd expect a person to look like after being killed by an explosive, but we have a perfectly preserved body as far as Barton is concerned."

"Minus the radiation levels SHIELD is detecting, which is why they refused to do an autopsy yet and release the body for burial."

"Exactly!"

"I'm going to need to buy a vowel."

"They were aiming for me, I was the target. Now they couldn't have planned on Barton being the one to go so it was something they did to Barton while he was trying to stop the device."

"Which is?"

Stark deflated a little. "I haven't got that far yet."

"Tony! What difference does any of this make? The process may have been flawed but the end result is still the same. Clint's dead and none of this is going to change that. You need to find a new obsession because this isn't healthy."

"I need answers Bruce. I need something and I don't care how irrelevant it is or how dead Barton's going to remain even if I find it, I just… I can't protect against this if I don't know exactly what happened. I know it's not going to change what happened but if I can stop it from happening again."

"I just can't put anymore energy into this Tony," apologized Bruce. This continued fixation was spreading him too thin. Despite Stark's broken look, Banner still walked away.


	14. Chapter 14

The day that everyone had been dreading finally came. The call came early in the morning while most of the city was still asleep, promising fewer onlookers and witnesses to the team's first mission sans archer. There was a nervous energy that no one wanted to acknowledge; where wiseass cracks and morbid humour once had filled the jet, only silence.

Clint sat in the back of the jet next to Bruce, feeling naked and useless. Everyone else had their battle gear and weapons and while Barton had been clad in his uniform since appearing in the morgue, he hadn't had the heart to try and touch his prized bow. What good would it do a ghost anyways? He wasn't entirely sure why he was tagging along to begin with; more self torture perhaps.

The jet touched down a block away from the hot zone allowing the team to spill out into the street safe from fire. The archer hung back as the Avengers ironed out their plan of attack. Being in the thick of things would be too much like the old days; distance was required to not get swept up in the moment and believe that he could actually make a difference out there. It still hurt to watch a finely oiled machine carry on as though he had never been a part of it.

To the outside world it looked like a hostage situation at a local diner, but to anyone paying attention to the details of the situation, it was anything but. The sheer firepower brought by the enemy contingent suggested they were bunkering down for a long haul with an equally heavy force. SHIELD had secured the surrounding area for ten blocks, pushing press and onlookers back. It was a front for a SHIELD lab nestled beneath the unremarkable diner. The few customers that had stopped in for breakfast were the only civilians caught in the mix, the staff being comprised of newer agents honing their undercover skills. Calling in the Avengers was probably overkill but it was a gentle shove back into action and a guarantee that SHIELD property wasn't going anywhere.

Clint popped up to the roof across the street and sat on the ledge, legs dangling over it. Thor and Iron Man each took to a rooftop to deal with the covering gunmen while Black Widow and Captain America engaged the hostiles on the ground. Dr Banner hung back by the SHIELD mobile command van waiting to see if the situation escalated to green proportions.

"That was entirely too easy," commented Iron Man finishing up with the last fool brave enough to tangle with the impressive force of Stark's suit. "I feel cheap."

"The battle did end prematurely," added Thor.

"This is the thing that makes you feel cheap Stark? I would have thought all those one night stands might have impressed that upon you," countered Black Widow.

"I'll have you know that all those hotel rooms, limo rides and top shelf booze are the best money could buy. No one night stand was ever cheap." The pavement protested as Iron Man touched down near his teammates with Thor hot on his heels. It was like riding a bike, the comradery and easiness between them returned without missing a beat and for a brief fleeting moment, it felt like old times.

The ground started to rumble, proceeding the ominous rumble of something very large approaching. "What the hell is that?" yelled Black Widow to be heard by the team standing only a few feet away.

"It sounds like … but it can't be," muttered Captain America, the familiarity of it hitting a little close to home.

"What?" asked Bruce, moving in to join his friends.

"It sounds like a tank," clarified the Captain.

Iron Man snorted. "In the middle of New York?" A witty retort about age stopped short of his lips as an enormous tank rolled around the corner. Its sheer size and armament dwarfing anything any of them had seen before. "I stand corrected," he amended as several of the monstrosity's guns came to bear on the team.

The world erupted in a hail storm of metal pings and firing bangs. Iron Man turned, moulding his hard metal form protectively around Black Widow as he carried her out of the way while Captain America's iconic shield deflected the bullets moving towards Thor and himself.

The Hulk protected Bruce as he charged down the middle towards the iron giant taking pot shots at his friends. The heavy ordinates being lobbed at the green fury did nothing to deter him, only fuelled his unbridled rage further. It was like watching a toddler smash a glob of play-doh.

It was the first time since the incident that Bruce had surrendered to the Hulk. His short work of the tank bordered on incessant, but no one wanted to get between the Hulk and the former tank. With a triumphant roar he picked the mangled hunk of metal up with two meaty hands and hurled it down the street. A small grin crept across Hulk's face at the cacophony of noise that erupted as it smashed down the street.

The Hulk cocked his head to the side and glanced towards the warm spring sun, a pleasant noise rumbling in his throat. With the beast distracted by something shiny the rest of the team moved into standby mode. Captain America and Black Widow conversing with the SHIELD contingent to secure and clean up the area while Thor and Iron Man lounged around keeping an eye on their green friend. The collateral damage in the aftermath of the scene was always minimized if they weren't trying to force the Hulk to transform back. It was a tenuous truce the team had established with their large friend. Plus, he was always more willing to cooperate if he was allowed a little personal time after the treat was taken care of.

Hulk searched the area, letting his gaze fall on each Avenger before searching out the next. It was a habitual action, a way to reassure himself that everyone that mattered was present and accounted for. The red one, the blue one, the smaller one, the smash one, they were all there except the high up one. Hulk turned around searching the skyline for the one that was missing. Bruce had had troubling feelings regarding that one; feelings the hulk had never before experienced. From what he had picked up from his alter ego, the team had been sad but they didn't seem that sad now. The high up one had been missing and that was still true now.

Unable to comprehend the feelings that had been imparted on him in regards to what was missing, the Hulk began to climb up the nearest building. Surely the team just hadn't looked hard enough. He reached the top to find the roof empty, his brow creasing in confusion; this would have been the roof the high up would chose to perch. Hulk sucked in a huge breath hoping to catch the scent of his missing team member.

Clint sat there watching the Hulk climb over the side of his building. "Hey there big guy. How's it going?" It felt natural to continue the line of conversation. The Hulk never really spoke, sometimes answering Barton's greetings on the battlefield with well timed grunts and snorts, but never actual words. Still, the green guy was part of the team and felt wrong to ignore him due to a communication gap. If he wasn't going to receive an answer anyways, there was no real harm in keeping up the pretence, if just for himself.

"What are you up to?" Clint asked as the Hulk sniffed the air. Well honed intuition kicked in, setting off an uneasy feeling. The archer began to look around for any sign of danger, for something the team had missed. Glancing back, the Hulk had scooted right next to him, zeroing eerily on his spot. "Can you see me?"

The Hulk hummed, which Barton had taken to affectionately refer to as the Hulk's purring in Bruce's presence. His hand experimentally swiped at the air in front of him.

Clint watched in dismay as the enormous green hand moved through him as though he wasn't even there. He hadn't reached out to touch Barton, but to search for something in front of him. "Guess not."

Again the Hulk grumbled but didn't look away.

"You can hear me though, can't you?"

Hulk's eyes lit up with familiarity.

"What is he staring at?" asked Iron Man after watching the Hulk sit on the roof for several moments.

Thor glanced over searching for what could occupy the beast so intently. The beast usually stayed on the ground, ambling around crushing cars by hopping on them or flipping them over. "Perhaps he misses the archer?"

It was a sobering thought, one that hadn't crossed his mind the entire battle. Clint's absence had been keenly felt on the trip over, but once the action began, Stark was ashamed to say he didn't give their fallen friend a single thought. "Join the club, big guy."

Steve strode over to the pair looking less than impressed. "You let him climb up there?"

" _Let_ is a relative term in this scenario. We don't _let_ the Hulk do anything, he kind of does what he wants and we decide if it's worth a smack down or not. In this case, I weighed the increase in my insurance premium against the damage incurred trying to dissuade him versus allowing his climb of fancy and came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth the effort." Stark crossed his arms and slouched further against the hunk of debris he and Thor had been leaning against.

"What's he doing up there?" tried Rogers, hoping to avoid another verbal pissing match of misdirected misery.

"We are uncertain," answered Thor.

Iron Man snickered. "Maybe he wants to swat at biplanes."

The Captain shook his head and turned back to the building the Hulk had settled on. "Hulk! What do you say we let Bruce come back?" he called.

The calm giant shot a look of disdain at Rogers before smashing his fist against the ledge of the building. The concrete ledge cracked, a few pebble sized chunks breaking off and tumbling to the ground.

"I guess he doesn't want to come down," said Iron Man with sarcastic glee.

"If you're not going to help…" started Rogers.

"I'm really not," interrupted Stark.

"Thor, could you go up there and see what has him so fixated, maybe get him down so they can open the street up sometime today?" implored Captain America.

"It would be my pleasure," said Thor, already whirling his hammer. Today's adventure had hardly broken a sweat, but a chance to wrestle with the Hulk could make up for that.

Iron Man shrugged his shoulders as his partner in crime beat a hasty exit up to their green teammate. "Whatever. Are we done here, cause I have things that require my attention?"

Captain Rogers could feel the headache building behind his eyes. "Yeah, we're clear here."

"Well this was fun Steven," taunted Iron Man, getting to his feet. "We should do it again real soon." With two steps, he launched himself up and sped back to towards the tower leaving the rest of the team behind.

* * *

The city lights twinkled like stars, dwarfing the actual pinpoints of light that hung in the sky. Stark wasn't sure when day gave way to night but judging by the numbness in his legs and the coldness of his skin, it had been some time ago. He had fled the lab in need of fresh air and answers that didn't seem as forthcoming in the constructs of his creative cave as they had once been. Barton always seemed to achieve some personal epiphany from perching on the edge of the balcony; all Tony managed was to keep vertigo from setting in.

"Screw it," he declared, reaching in his pocket for his phone. He wasn't getting anywhere trying to channel someone else, or play by someone else's rules, he needed to do this the Tony Stark way. If he couldn't get to Charlie, then he'd have to get Charlie to come to him. No one was going to be foolhardy enough to attempt a breach of the walls of safety Stark had constructed around himself; he was going to have to make himself accessible. Accessing every social media outlet he could think of, Tony informed the world of a late night appearance at one of his old stomping grounds; Tony Stark was going clubbing.

"Sir, may I recommend against this?" asked JARVIS as Stark made his way through the lobby towards the side entrance.

"No JARVIS, and you can't tell the others either," replied Tony, brushing off his program's concern.

"Then may I suggest using Mr Hogan as you're driver instead of one the limo service is providing?" tried the AI in vain.

"I'm doing this JARVIS and you're not going to stop me. And if you do, if you run and tell Steve or Bruce or anyone else you've formed this babysitting alliance with, I will rework your programming. Is that understood?" demanded the inventor. The threat had passed his lips before he even realized it was uttered. It was out there and there was no taking it back. JARVIS may be nothing more than a compilation of circuits and programming but it had cared more for Tony than most people of flesh and blood that had ever been a part of his life. Still, this was important as much as it was reckless and he couldn't let good intentions get in the way of making up for his sins.

There was a moment of silence that could almost be conveyed as hurt on the AI's part. With defeat, JARVIS replied, "As you wish sir. The limo is waiting outside to take you to your destination."

It was like kicking a puppy and Tony wanted to apologise, but the words wouldn't come. He had just never been taught to say he was sorry. He was just digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole he would never be able to escape. Stark paused at the door. "I'll be back later JARVIS, don't wait up."

The limo was waiting right where promised, an eager man who looked barely old enough to drive waiting to open the back door. "Good evening sir," greeted the kid.

The billionaire offered a forced smile as he slid into the back. Normally he would be sociable but this wasn't the time, he had a goal to achieve. After giving his final destination, Tony closed the divider between himself and the driver, wrapping himself in silence before he had to put on a show to entertain the masses, convincing them that this was a wild night out and nothing more.

* * *

Tony pushed open the heavy exit door and traipsed into the back alley. The cold night air cleared his head and renewed his dwindling energy. He had made a career of excelling in debauchery and being the consummate party boy, but tonight he was feeling every second of his age or perhaps every inch of his growth that had made him more than a playboy. Somewhere along the way this had ceased being his life; sure he indulged in it from time to time but the hard hitting twenty-four hours a day was clearly behind him. He had to be convincing and if it took weeks, Tony would still come out.

Reasonably this would be the best opportunity to get to the billionaire. Out all night by himself partying was a realistic scenario, one that Charlie should take advantage of. The egotistical part of his brain screamed that making it so easy and cliché was damaging to his reputation, but this wasn't about him. This was about getting revenge for Barton, though it would be nice if Charlie was a little quicker at exploiting his perceived advantage.

The constant thudding of the music permeated the exit door leaving the alley anything but quiet. Tony took a deep breath of clear air, preparing himself for his second act when a spark of light caught his attention. "I didn't know anyone else was out here."

The cocktail girl blew out a long huff of smoke, her smile shrouded in the darkness of the alley. "No one ever notices the hired help unless they need a drink or an ass to squeeze." Standing up from the rickety fire escape she had been sitting on, she one last drag off her cigarette. "The tips are good though."

"They must be if you're willing to put up with drunks at your age," replied Stark, wincing at his lack of tact. "Not that you're old, just, they usually employ newly minted twenty-one year olds to sling drinks, not clearly functioning adults."

"Why you know just what to say to a girl to make her feel all special and the like," she replied with a mock southern accent. "Girl's got to pay the bills though and no one tips like a drunk guy drooling over a nice set of boobs."

Stark snorted. "I'll give you that."

"So you're the world famous Tony Stark. This is what a billionaire looks like?"

"Apparently. Impressed?" Tony's cocksure grin faltered as she stepped closer. Remove Pepper from his life and this was the situation he loved to find himself in; a beautiful woman, painfully close and wanting nothing more from him than his undivided attention for the next few hours. He flinched back as she raised her hand towards his face.

"You have an eyelash," she explained, her hand waiting for some signal to continue its action in the wake of his flinch. Gently she brushed her thumb across his cheek, rolling her hand slightly to bring her finger to gently caress his jaw.

Stark was about to protest the intimate action, stop things before they got started, when the world started to wobble. A cold numbness began to crawl along all of his limbs as his legs gave out. The jarring impact rippled up from his knees as he hit the ground. "What did you do?" he slurred, tongue no longer obeying his commands. The ground rushed up to meet him as a sleek black car came to a screeching halt behind her.


	15. Chapter 15

Tony flopped with the jerky motions his environment seemed to be delivering. His mouth tasted like garbage and there was a healthy amount of drool hanging from him mouth, pooling on the horrible fake leather surface he was currently face planted on. Fighting to open his heavy eyelids he moved to wipe at his mouth only to come up short. He snapped his eyes open, fighting the raging headache that was trying to pound his brain into a new shape.

The car took another sharp corner causing him to flop slightly in the other direction. Apparently a seatbelt was too much to ask for, but not new clothes. Looking down, his former designer clothes had been replaced by items that looked like they had been liberated from a member of the grunge movement's closet. Tony spared a moment to be bashful about the thought of someone stripping his unconscious body before turning a glare to the only other occupant in the back of the car.

"Did you do this?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders to emphasize his current state of dress.

The waitress offered a seductive smile. "Had to make sure you didn't have any tracking devices or other surprises. This was the fastest way to ensure that." Leaning forward to close the distance between them she added, "And for the record, I am."

"You're what? Insane? Some wacked out femme fetale? Stop me when I get it."

"Impressed," she offered casually before jabbing a rather large and intimidating needle into the side of Stark's neck.

The familiar numbness was washing over him again. As the world started to dissolve into darkness, he took a good look at his captor. "You look familiar."

* * *

The coldness stole Tony's breath, leaving him coughing and sputtering as the icy water ran down his face to seep into his clothing. "He's awake," reported a heavy Russian accent. The clunk of a bucket behind Tony was horrifically loud in the silence that followed.

Heart pounding from his shocking wake up call, Stark twisted his head around frantically, trying to catch up with the situation. His fingers were already starting to feel tingly from the tight rope biting at his wrists, his shoulders pulled back harshly behind his back. If it was one thing bad guys did right it was ominous dark and dank buildings for lairs and clearly these guys were no exception. He gave an experimental wiggle, frowning at the lack of give from both his obsessive bindings and the chair bolted firmly to the ground.

"Are you Charlie?" sputtered the billionaire, refusing to let them see him sweat.

The man before him smiled. With an accent a little closer to home he said, "This isn't a bond movie. We don't sit around talking about our plans while stroking a white cat. What makes a punk like you think you get to meet the boss?"

Stark glared at the man before him before looking to the two hired thugs chomping at the bit to break in the new brass knuckles that were gleaming in the pale light. The four of them weren't alone though, standing in the shadows at the very back of the room was someone else. "The moment he made this personal," Tony spat at not Russian mobster guy. Turning his determined gaze to the shadow lurking in the back, he added, "Besides, megalomaniacs love to gloat and they're certainly going to be around to watch their handiwork."

"Very good Mr Stark." The short and sharp applause stopped as the last man stepped into the light. Truthfully Tony had been kind of expecting a Bond-esk type villain. The pageantry in which Charlie had gone after the Avengers had been well choreographed and probably the closest anyone had really gotten to wipe them out since Loki decided to open the heavens to an invading army from outer space. Everything had been careful and diabolical unlike the usual impulse fuelled revenge tactics from people Tony had pissed off or the grandiose, but utterly ridiculous schemes by whack jobs set on making a name for themselves. He wasn't expecting a normal looking guy who was probably younger than him. "Unfortunately you're observation skills aren't going to help you here."

"You'd be surprised," scoffed Stark before being introduced the Russian guy's fist. His head snapped back as blood began to run down the back of his throat. "Yeah, okay," he mumbled before spitting out a glob of blood. "So you have me, now we can put an end to this."

Charlie's brow creased as he scrutinized every inch of the man strapped down to the chair before him. Astonished, he said, "You really do believe the world revolves around you, don't you?"

"Well I do make the things that make it go round. Good help being hard to find, your little minion with the bomb blabbed it was me you were gunning for when you managed to take out my friend."

"Ah, yes, the archer that so nobly sacrificed himself for all those sickly sweet little children. You're right, the ripples from your death would have been far more reaching but I think my point was still made quite nicely."

Tony had to swallow the uneasy sinking feeling that was growing in his gut. He had been sure he had figured out the angle on this whole mess; it had required sacrifice to appease the vengeance gods and spare his friends anymore heartache. "Which was?"

"That Fury and SHEILD aren't untouchable. They sit there collecting things of power under the claim that they're too dangerous to fall into the wrong hands, but who said they were the right hands? I think you yourself can attest to what happens when you believe you know best about who should have power and how shouldn't." There was malice behind his smile, a quick shot to the heart of the matter.

How was Tony going to argue a point he himself had been convinced of? He'd never been one of Fury's cheerleaders but the badass leather clad face of a superspy organization suddenly seemed a better choice for harbouring destructive forces than someone; really they were two sides of the same coin but better the devil you know than the devil you don't. Besides, Fury had done a lot of questionable things, but they never ended with Tony tied to a chair bleeding.

"Since you dodged my last bullet, and were so thoughtful as to make yourself available, I think you could do me the courtesy as divulging a few Stark Industry secrets that would be helpful in give me the edge. What do you say?"

Stark glanced down, trying to find his center. His plan had seemed like a good idea at the time, clearly some of the logistics should have been worked out a little better. He wasn't the steel trap like Romanoff and Barton were; he couldn't take torture with a smile on his face and ask for more. He certainly wasn't curling up with nobility at night like Rogers and Thor and there was no big green protector to shield his ass like Bruce. This was going to be all on him; waiting for an opportunity to make his move. "Do your worst."

* * *

Clint winced as Stark's limp body was hurled into the small room. The door slammed shut behind him as the thugs left their prisoner to stew for a bit before they started with their next insidious torture method. The archer knew Tony was going to do something stupid the second he got into that limo in the middle of the night, but this was definitely not what he'd been expecting. Barton watched empathetically as Tony slowly tried to pull himself into a sitting position, careful of every cut, bruise and broken bone. He'd been there before; knew what every single one of those injuries felt like.

Tension ran through Clint; he needed to do something, to tell someone where they were but the only one who had remotely indicated any ability to communicate with him had been the hulk. How was he going to convey the situation to the green guy in a matter that he could pass it on to the team, let alone how was he going to get him to come out and play? Instead he settled for pacing back and forth, mind racing with a thousand escape plans from the extremely unlikely to standard trained agent type; none were going to benefit Tony.

"This was the dumbest, most idiotic thing you have ever done, and you've done some pretty dumb shit Stark," raged the archer. "I hope you know this isn't a plan. Getting your ass handed to you and most likely killed, is nowhere near anything resembling a plan." Slumping down next to the billionaire, Clint deflated a little. "I want you to know I get it though. And on some level, I appreciate it. Haven't had very many people in my life that would go the extra mile, hell, that would even think to check up on me, let alone make it their weird twisted and unhealthy obsession to avenge me. So whatever happens here, I want you to know you're not going to be alone."

It was one thing when he was the one taking the brunt of things, it was another to have to sit back and watch someone else do it. Being completely helpless to do anything about it was even worse. Having faith that the team would come and pull his ass from the fire had gotten him through many bleak situations, but it was harder to hold that faith when he had to sit back and let Tony suffer until the Avengers figured out that Iron Man was even in trouble.

"If you could figure out a way to get yourself out of this soon, I'd really appreciate it Tony."

* * *

Stark hissed as he pulled his leg underneath him and scuttled into the corner. It was Afghanistan and a weeklong bender all rolled into one. He had thought his threshold for withstanding pain had increased with everything he'd been through, but it didn't feel like it at the moment. He really needed to stop hanging around with the wonder twin assassins; they had a bad habit of making things like this seem easy.

Looking around the bleak and barren room Tony let out a defeated sigh. "Well this is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into." He tried to ignore the sinking feeling that these people might actually be professionals at the top of their game instead of the usual wannabes and over confident psychopaths he was used to dealing with. The room was cold concrete with a single door at one end and a small window with thick bars at the other. The window was taunting, a single sliver to freedom. "Well, at least I have a view."

His gusto for his rather impulsive and brash plan had disappeared somewhere around the time Russian mafia guy switched from using his fists to something resembling a cattle prod. There was a way out of there and he knew it, but the constant ache burning deep in his bones and the tired weariness of trying to fight something he probably deserved, left Tony with little desire to formulate an escape plan. He had been prepared to see this through to the end, whatever that might entail, but he knew the good guys would prevail in the end. The inventor's ego had supplied him with that notion, along with the idea that halfwits would be involved at this end. It was another oversight; hadn't he been making a lot of those lately.

The selfish part of him wished he had left word for the team, gotten them involved so he could look forward to a rescue, but he needed to do this one his own. He couldn't take the risk that he would get someone else killed in the quest to accomplish one of his goals. The body count was piling up and he didn't think he had the strength to hold it up anymore. It might not have been half bad if the people that kept laying down their lives for him didn't believe in him. What did they see in him that was worth so much more than they could offer?

His thoughts and reprieve didn't last long as an ogre looking man slammed open the door.

"Well it's nice to know Quasimodo found gainful employment," quipped Tony, getting to his feet. He really needed to stop picking up Barton's bad habits. He braced himself for a quick decisive blow to the face, instead the thug wrapped a large meaty hand oppressively around his neck and dragged him out of the room.

* * *

With one hand wrapped tightly around Tony's throat, the guard slammed him back into the chair. He struggled fruitlessly as the ropes were cinched tightly around his wrists, ankles and chest. Stark steeled himself against what was to come. It would be painful, but he could go a couple rounds as a punching bag. He just had to keep it together until an opportunity presented itself, or he could make one.

His heart fluttered a little when someone new entered the room. It was hard to predict the outcome of something if foreign variables entered the equation. With apprehension, he watched as the newest member to the beat up Tony club laid out his weapons of choice on a pristine silver tray. This was so out of Stark's wheel house it wasn't even funny anymore. One by one vials of liquid were set out preceding the coup de grace: IV tubing and bag of saline.

He'd been prepared for physical torture, rough coercion into doing something he didn't want to do, but chemical hadn't even crossed his mind. It was an oversight he was willing to chalk up to not being a highly trained spy.

"Today we're going to try something a little different. Forcing people to capitulate can be quite tiresome. But you're an idea man, aren't you? Maybe if we pick your brain, we might find something a little more helpful than you're being." Charlie gave a self-satisfied smirk.

The newcomer put on a pair of rubber gloves with a theatrical snap. The guard grabbed a metal rod from the corner and inserted it into a slot behind the chair to give the IV bag something to hang off of while his co-conspirator wrapped a rubber band around Stark's arm to find a vein.

"Tony, this isn't going to be pleasant, but you just have to stay calm. It's much worse if you try and fight," warned Barton.

Tony tried to fight, using all the motion he could given the painfully tight bindings. It bought him mere seconds before the needle was slipped in the crock of his arm with gentle pinch. The newcomer grabbed the first vial off the tray and loaded the contents into his needle before injecting it into a port on the IV bag. Turning back to Charlie he said, "You should start to see some effect in the next fifteen minutes."

"Well then," replied Charlie, standing up from his chair, "I'll let you enjoy this for awhile, then we can talk about more important things." The three of them exited the room, leaving Tony to whatever fate the chemical cocktail was designed for.

It didn't take long to figure out what the drugs did. Slowly colors began to shift, one by one until they actually began to move of their own provocation. Tony scrunched his eyes tightly trying to shut out his own elephants on parade moment. The world tilted with a sickening lurch, stealing his breath as he prepared to get personally acquainted with the floor. When no impact came, he hazarded a peek, finding the world just as he left it, if somewhat a little skewed. It was as if someone had changed the color saturation of reality, turning yellows into greens and reds into oranges that then proceeded to grow legs and stomp around the room. There was a time Tony would have paid for an experience like this, but this was hardly the time or the place, nor was he that man anymore.

"Stop Tony, you're hurting yourself!" Clint tried to put a comforting hand on his friend, to offer something solid and tangible, but moved through Stark and the wooden arm of the chair without hesitation. "It's not real, you have to remember that." There was a pleading quality to the archer's voice, a silent prayer that his friend could hear him or that the words wrapped protectively around the billionaire, it didn't matter.

The dry crusted blood caked on Tony's arms and staining his too baggy clothes went from a sorrowful reminder of human frailty to living, breathing, dancing fire. Someone was screaming. As he tried to pull free of his restraints to pat out the fire crawling over him, but they wouldn't give. More liquid fire spilled from his wrists, pooling on the floor. Faster, harder, Tony tried to pull his hands and feet free igniting the aches and pains from the deep set bruises already marring his skin. As it became too much and the world faded to black, and the screaming finally stopped, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of the fallen archer crouching next to him.


	16. Chapter 16

Thwack.

"Mmmmm."

Thwack

"op it."

Thwack. Sucking in a deep breath, Stark caught the pungent taste of dirt. He cracked an eye open to catch a whiz of purple fly by his head followed by a nerve grating thwack.

He felt exhaustion in every molecule of his being; even the effort to pry himself off the cold concrete floor seemed too much. The repetitive noise was making it impossible to crawl back into the comforting arms of darkness. "Art…n op it," mumbled Tony.

Thwack.

Tony frowned. Couldn't he just be left to die in peace? He managed to fold his arms underneath himself and with the assistance of the wall behind, found a position that somewhat resembled vertical. It was the wrong move. Bile forced its way past his lips as Stark doubled over and threw up what little was left in his stomach and a lot of acid.

Thwack.

"Jesus Barton, enough. You're as relentless as these assholes," snapped the billionaire, wiping at his chin. The words were out of his mouth before his brain could sensor them, could correct what was wrong with the statement and re-establish the facts of the situation. Tony looked around his cell. It was just as empty as he expected but there was still a flicker of disappointment.

If the drugs could allow him to think Clint was still alive, who knew what secrets he'd blab with a little pressure from his host. "Get it together Stark. You're better than this," he scolded. His eyes drifted up to the window nestled behind thick bars. It was clear Tony wasn't going to be able to take down Charlie on his own, despite his desire to keep the team out of the man's clutches.

He'd have to blow the window and get help if he wanted this to end here and now. Everything he needed was in the other room, laid out on a silver tray. He just needed a way to grab it before the guard restrained him in the chair. Through a shaft of light streaming through the bars of the window a streak of purple and yellow moved, evaporating once it hit the shadow of the cell.

Stark watched intently for a few moments to see if it would happen again before shaking his head to shake the last grip of pharmaceuticals that had been messing with his perception free. Painfully getting to his feet, he shuffled closer to the window and placed his hand in the warm sliver of light. The ball whipped by again and as Tony went to wrap his hand around it, it went right through. The chemical cocktail really did a number on him, not only was he seeing things but hallucinating dead people and their annoying habits. It was the only explanation for the imaginary ball and the sudden appearance of the word 'Stockholm' smudged in the dust on the window; ghosts weren't real.

* * *

Clint sat slouched in the corner, a silent sentinel watching over his unconscious friend. He had to give Stark credit, as harsh as the experience was, he never gave Charlie anything useful. In fact, the infamous Stark swagger was firmly in place even if Tony wouldn't remember anything that happened. It was a small blessing Clint was thankful for. Situations like these were always worse when you had to relieve them every night afterwards.

There was nothing to do, but wait and watch. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ball Tony had thrown back at him; the last time he was ever going to exchange witty banter with a friend. He lined up his shot, seeing how many rebounds he get off the wall and still have it make it back into his waiting hand and threw.

Thwack.

"Mmmmm." Stark groaned from the heap the guard had so helpfully dropped him in.

Thwack

"op it."

Thwack.

"Art…n op it," mumbled Tony.

Barton could almost swear the inventor was trying to get his name. Loneliness was starting to mess with the archer. He'd always preferred to be the lone wolf type, but it was one thing when he controlled how much and what kind of interaction he had with people. Enforced and never ending isolation was another animal altogether. Thwack.

Tony frowned. He managed to fold his arms underneath himself and with the assistance of the wall behind found a position that somewhat resembled vertical. Stark doubled over and threw up what little was left in his stomach and a lot of acid.

Thwack.

"Jesus Barton, enough. You're as relentless as these assholes," snapped the billionaire, wiping at his chin.

Clint paused mid throw. Tony was talking to him, something that was situation specific and timely. It wasn't a statement made in the abstract, it was specifically directed at him; it was almost too much to hope for. "You can see me?"

Tony looked around his cell. There was no sign that he heard the archer at all. A part of Clint died as he realized Stark wasn't looking at him, so much as checking out his surroundings.

"Get it together Stark. You're better than this," he scolded. His eyes drifted up to the window nestled behind thick bars.

Clint's fingers tighten painfully around the rubber ball. Charlie had taken everything from him, literally ripped the world away and now he was going after the rest of the team. He couldn't beat the man down with his fists in righteous fury, instead he whipped the ball as hard as he could trying to direct his frustration somewhere before it tore him apart.

Through a shaft of light streaming through the bars of the window a streak of purple and yellow moved evaporating once it hit the shadow of the cell. Stark watched intently for a few moments to see if it would happen again before shaking his head to shake the last grip of pharmaceuticals that had been messing with his perception free. Painfully getting to his feet, he shuffled closer to the window and placed his hand in the warm sliver of light.

The ball bounced off the walls coming back to the archer's waiting hand. Clint kept his eyes glued to his friend. "You saw that didn't you?" Clint jumped to his feet and moved next to Tony, secretly hoping the billionaire would actually look him in the eye, actually see that he was still there with him. Clint waved his hand in front of Stark's face but got no reaction. "You can't see me, but you could see this for a moment." Clint threw the ball again.

The ball whipped by again and as Tony went to wrap his hand around it, it went right through.

Excitement bubbled up in Clint as he watched Tony try and grab the ball. It didn't matter that he didn't, he saw it. There was a chance that they could see him and if they could see him, they could fix it, bring Clint back to flesh and blood. The archer didn't know just how much he needed that hope until he realized he had given up on the idea completely. His life sentence of watching could have an end. More importantly, the things he had with him could be seen by people in the real world. Now he had a way to bring the team to Tony, to get Stark the rescue he needed.

Getting that rescue meant leaving Tony alone. Even if the man had no idea he'd been there with through everything, it was still something to not have to go through it alone. He needed to leave some kind of sign that help was coming, that despite how hopeless it might seem, the billionaire wasn't alone.

He rubbed his thumb over his fingers as he eyes the dirty window. "Come on. If there was ever a time to reach out and touch something." He closed his eyes and hesitantly reached out towards the window. He almost flinched when he felt the cold smoothness of the glass. Not wanting to risk his good fortune, he wrote the shortest word that could convey the greatest amount of meaning before disappearing back to the tower.

* * *

Clint appeared in the common living room of the tower to find it empty. He let out a frustrated sigh; it would have been too much to hope Bruce would be there waiting for him. With one last look around the room, he went to the next; one down, a couple hundred more rooms to check. There was no one else there either, so the team had to have noticed Stark's absence over the last three days. Assuming they had rallied together to find their missing teammate instead of dealing with the situation as four individuals, Barton had a short list of places to within the tower to look.

The third time's the charm, he found the team seated around the briefing room table volleying back scenarios and ideas on where the wayward inventor could have disappeared. It hit Clint just how much he missed the weird life he had, that gearing up for battle was something that could be missed.

"The airport was clean. If Stark's not in the city anymore they didn't move him by plane," informed Natasha, cold and efficient with anger simmering just beneath the surface.

"We know they dumped the first car and got into a second one. Wouldn't it be safe to assume they continued via vehicle?" added Bruce. His frustration and anger was more apparent than Romanoff's. This was just the stupid, selfish and harebrained scheme he had been hoping his friend would avoid, but deep down he knew all the strife within the team had been building to this point. He just figured Tony would have been a little smarter about what path to self-destruction he chose.

"Let's not rule anything out. If Charlie is behind this, he's smart enough to circumvent our usual efforts." Steve tossed out the stack of folders sitting in front of him to each member of the team. "Here's the latest from SHIELD. They don't have anything useful yet either."

Clint moved next to Bruce and opened his mouth, but hesitation stole the words. It was a reckless plan, one with lots of room for error and the possibility of innocent people, friends, to get hurt. It was a bad plan, but it was the best he had at the moment; he was desperate and Tony was running out of time. "Hulk, I know you can hear me. I need you to come out and play. You have to find Iron Man."

Bruce shifted in his seat slightly trying to easy the odd twitch in his shoulder. Things had been stressful since Clint's death, but each day ratcheted that stress up another notch until this: another team member's life hanging by a thread. His resolve had been weakening with each passing incident; it had been so freeing to let his alter ego out to rain destruction down upon those that had threatened the city. Bruce hadn't had to fight for every minute, to just keep his head above water. Based on the report from Thor, recent events hadn't gone unnoticed by the Hulk who had exhibited unusual behaviour after the battle. It was just one more grieving individual Banner had to contend with. It was getting so hard to be the pillar of support for so many and it was likely a crack was going to form soon in what used to be solid.

Barton waited, getting nothing in return than the doctor shifting in his seat. "Come on Hulk! Time to go stomp on some bad guys!" he shouted, mere inches from the doctor's ear.

Bruce frowned, gritting his teeth hard. The green guy had been wound tight lately, but now he seemed to be raging like an unruly child. He slouched forward trying to ease the twisting feeling beginning to burn deep in his gut as he mentally chastised the beast to settle down and wait for the appropriate time and place.

"Are you alright doctor?" asked Rogers pausing in his briefing.

"Fine," snarled Banner, tightening his grip on both the table edge and his control. Stark was in trouble and he didn't need to content with his own internal strife, especially when he and the beast had been abiding by a tenuous working agreement.

Clint needed more, a harder shove to make the green guy force a change. "I'm sorry Bruce." It was no secret how Bruce felt about his internal friend; despite the good the creature had done, Banner was still reluctant to believe he could be trusted. Even if this worked out and Tony was saved, it would still be at the expense of Bruce's humanity and it was hard to write that off given how hard Barton knew he worked at it.

Reaching in his pocket, the archer pulled out one of the arrowheads. It felt oddly heavy in his hand, a reminder that though the ends often justified the means, it was still hard to pull the trigger. Arming it, he threw the arrowhead at Banner.

It was a test arrow, loaded with a fraction of the explosive power it would have been if the design made its way into Barton's quiver, but it was enough to maim someone had it been anyone other than Bruce. Like Clint, the explosion didn't seem to be seen by anyone else in the room, but it clearly had an effect on the doctor.

Bruce was trying to pay attention to what Steve was covering, it was important, a life was on the line but the Hulk seemed intent on pulling his attention elsewhere. There was no danger around that required the green guy's attention, suggesting that perhaps the beast that Bruce thought was incapable of humanity was actually feeling the loss, that he had formed relationships with the team he fought alongside and worried for them. The thought was railroaded as the weight of a brick wall crashed down upon him. He could feel the Hulk surging forth and doubled over in response.

"Bruce?" Natasha was poised with weary apprehension while the rest of the team watched in concern.

"I think… I'm gonna need some fresh… air," managed Bruce through clenched teeth. Wrapping his arm around his chest to try and metaphorically keep the beast within, he stumbled from his chair and hastily left the room. No one tried to stop him, leaving the room in silence as he exited.

Frantically, he pushed open the door to the emergency stairs. The elevator would be too risky if Bruce did fail to keep control, both structurally and for possible bystanders. Stark was generous in most aspects, building a special structure in the basement specifically designed to withstand a good chunk of the Hulk's rage. Bruce had asked for a cage, but Tony had build something more akin to a reinforced gym providing things the Hulk could 'play' with rather than treat him like the burden Bruce saw him as.

Clint followed Bruce down the stairs. He needed to keep the big guy's attention on him and not let the distractions of Stark's Hulk playpen keep the plan from working. Eight arrowheads to drive the Hulk to where Tony was; there wasn't room for error. Pulling another one out, he lobbed it at Bruce's retreating form. Direct hit. With a horrific roar, Bruce ceased to be and in his place was a snarling green giant.

"Here we go. Come on Hulk I'm right here, time to chase the birdie."


	17. Chapter 17

It didn't take long for the alarm to sound throughout the tower. "JARVIS?" asked Steve, not needing anything else to go wrong.

"The Hulk has smashed through the wall in stairwell six around level ten. He is currently heading north down the street," replied the AI.

"Just what we need right now," sighed Rogers.

"What would force our friend to come out and play?" inquired Thor. Normally he would jump at the chance to go a few rounds with the Hulk, but there were more pressing matters that could not wait.

Steve tossed his file aside. "We need to follow him. We can't have the big guy wreaking havoc out there."

"The sooner the better. I'll see what Stark has kicking around the lab to knock him out and meet you two in the lobby in ten minutes," said Romanoff, breaking for the door first.

It wasn't long before the three of them were standing in the street looking at the somewhat reserved path of destruction trailing through the city. Even with the best intentions the Hulk left a mess in his wake like a toddler.

Black Widow shrugged. "Well, at least he's easy to follow."

"Come on, let's get him back so we can continue looking for Stark." Captain America led the charge down the street to catch up to their wayward teammate.

* * *

"That's it." Barton tossed another arrowhead encouraging the Hulk to follow him around the corner. He'd give Tony an apology for the Hulk shaped hole in the wall of the tower and maybe admit some guilt to Fury in regards to the destroyed cars the Hulk was hopping on and tossing along the way. It was slow going, but progress was progress and every step was one step closer to delivering aid to an Avenger in need.

"Green beast, you must desist your voyage and return with us," called Thor, dropping down from above to land next to the Hulk.

"Not now Thor," snapped Clint. He didn't have the resources to let the green guy get distracted by anyone else, especially his blond punching bag friend.

The Hulk looked over at Thor and then back towards where he could sense Clint. The archer was supposed to be gone, but he could still hear him and smell him, more importantly, he seemed to be linked to the annoying bangs. Thor didn't seem inclined to do anything about whatever was popping at him. With a sharp growl, he put his back to Thor and continued down the street.

"Banner, we do not have time for this." Thor swung his hammer and let it fly.

The Hulk staggered slightly as the hammer slammed into his shoulder before zipping back into Thor's hand. Getting his feet under him, he yanked on the nearest street light, tearing it from the ground like a dandelion and swinging it wildly like a baseball bat. Thor dodged the first swing but not the second, propelling him straight into the nearest building with a thud. A wicked smile played on Hulk's face as he ambled over to knock the god down again.

"Hey!" shouted Clint. "You have to keep coming buddy." How was he going to compete with someone who was actually _there_ and visible? There were precious few arrowheads left and a long stretch to go with many potential distractions and if Thor was here, the rest of the team wouldn't be far behind. He needed to up his game and in a big way.

He pulled out the knife tucked into his boot and launched himself at Hulk's calf. He slammed the knife hard against the green flesh. What would cripple most, simply snapped the blade, leaving a short jagged shard of metal attached to the hilt. There was no visible damage, Banner's alter ego protecting him from harm in a way Clint could only be envious of, but the blow was definitely felt.

The Hulk let out a vicious roar turning sharply away from Thor who was still crawling out from under the rubble of the smashed wall. Stomping his feet, the pavement cracked under the pressure but gave him the leverage to push off and into a dead run. He inhaled deeply searching out the one that would dare attack him.

Barton scrambled to his feet, giving it his all to stay ahead of the big guy. It was like having a blood hound on his trail, a very large, very angry blood hound.

* * *

Stark cracked an eye at the distant roar. He listened intently for any sign that it hadn't been a dream, that his mind hadn't been playing tricks on him. The world was still a little skewed; the walls melting and unformed shapes singing in the corner. He was convinced the giant talking starfish sitting beside him wasn't real, mostly.

This felt like it could be genuine. Clint had told him he was there, left him a promise that he wasn't alone, surely the archer would be bringing the help the billionaire had so carelessly discarded to satisfy his need for revenge.

The roar echoed again, closer this time. Tony shakily got to his feet; it was bad enough that he was playing the damsel in distress, he wasn't going to let the team find him huddled in the corner trying to defend himself against a shifty looking grasshopper. He flinched as the door flew open, breaking free of its hinges and crashing triumphantly to the ground like a puppet suddenly free of its strings.

"Rogers?" asked Stark, somewhat disappointed, but relieved all the same. It could be a trick or another hallucination but the temptation to go along with it regardless was too great.

Captain America hesitated at the door. There had been a chance that the team would never see Stark again, that their numbers would dwindle yet again. Seeing the man in question standing there, a little worse for wear, but alive, brought the point home all the more. "Are you alright?"

Tony let out a half hearted snort; he really hated stupid questions. The world began to tilt as his knees gave out, but instead of finding himself sprawled out on the floor, Captain America had his arms wrapped around him holding him up right.

"Don't do something like this again," chastised the Captain, all authority and concern as they began the awkward process of trying to move to the door as one.

"You won't get any argument out of me."

"You're lucky we found you."

"I had faith in Barton."

Rogers froze, causing Tony to stumble over his feet. They continued moving, but the stiffness never left the blond. "Barton?"

"Yeah, I knew he'd be back with help." Tony was exhausted and feeling heavier by the minute. He just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a month, hoping that would be long enough for his little stunt to blow over.

"Clint was here huh?" It was soft and almost patronizing, the way Stark imagined he'd speak to a spooked child. "Can I get a medic over here?"

Tony lifted his head and looked around blearily at the hustle and bustle around them. Clearly the team had shown up, but he hadn't been expecting the mass of SHIELD agents swarming the scene like a colony of ants.

"We've got the building locked down and several tactical teams sweeping the area for anyone we missed," reported Brody approaching the pair with a medic in tow.

"I'm pretty sure he's been drugged. Slurring words and hallucinating when I found him," offered Rogers as the medic pried the billionaire from his grip to lower the smaller man down to do a complete field assessment.

"Agent Brody!" gushed Tony, trying to peer around the medic and his annoying flashlight. "You got all dressed up for little old me?"

"Keep telling yourself that. While SHIELD has devoted many man hours to finding your ass, I was on Hulk hunting duty. It was lucky your green friend went for a walk and picked this building to tear apart or we'd still be looking for you."

Tony frowned. That wasn't right. He was about to protest, to remind them all of the key role Barton had played, but the sneaky little medic had stealthily stab him in the arm with something and the world was quickly fading.

* * *

"Does someone want to tell me why the Hulk was wandering around the city?" demanded Fury, storming into the briefing room, leather coat flapping in his wake. It appeared that the Director had discovered a new level of pissed off and the Avengers were going to be blessed with the honor of trying it out.

Rogers, Thor and Banner all shifted in their seats trying to avoid the direct focus of Fury's unrelenting gaze. Like most things, Romanoff took it head on, neither flinching nor twitching under the man's scrutiny.

"I thought you had this thing under control Doctor?"

Bruce slumped further down in his seat looking sheepish in response. "I don't know what happened," he started.

"Does it matter in this case?" interjected Steve, jumping in to deflect some attention off of Banner. "No civilians were hurt and the Hulk found Stark; that's what matters here."

"Overlooking the thousands of dollars in damage, the resources dispatched to deal with a potentially dangerous situation and the general disruption of my day, I'm sure you can understand the concern we might have in regards to Doctor Banner's incapability of containing his friend."

Bruce absently picked at his thumb. He had pored over every report and scrap of evidence regarding what happened and was still at a loss. Fury's outrage wasn't misplaced, he was a force of destruction that could have easily racked up an impressive body count. "I don't know what happened, what set me off. We were just talking and then… I normally don't remember what happens when I change, but I do remember the event leading up to it. I don't remember anything warranting the other guy needing to come out or feeling like I wanted him to come out."

"We would not let Banner cause harm to those that do not deserve it," vowed Thor. "And we must not overlook at the victory we earned by the beast tracking down our brethren."

"Are you saying the Hulk knew where Tony was?" asked Steve. He and Romanoff had been a few minutes behind Thor ensuring that the chaos and destruction hadn't caused harm to any bystanders. He had assumed it was a lucky break that they ended up at the same abandoned building Stark was being held; it had been in the general area that they let the Hulk blow off steam by stomping around the abandoned district.

"He did seem determined to arrive at that destination," confirmed the thunder god. "It was almost as if he was following something."

Bruce sat up a little straighter. "Are you saying he tracked Stark? How?" He knew the Hulk always had a sense of what was going on, even if a higher understanding of events was beyond him, the creature understood the world on an emotional level. How would that translate to an ability to locate a missing team member? It was the kind of quandary Stark would have a field day with. Perhaps it was fate that the one time the Hulk showed independent and decisive action beyond a response to events was to save the first person and strongest believer that he could be something more than a curse.

Thor shrugged. He was just as confused as the rest of the group as to the how and why things had worked out, but was content with the outcome nonetheless.

"Maybe we should just take this as a win until proven otherwise. Bruce can handle it and if he can't we proved we can keep it under control." Everyone turned and looked at Natasha. She had become the silent member of the team over the last few months, offering opinions and conversation sparingly. The fact that she would break her silence to defend Banner's ability to keep the monster at bay was surprising. The assassin worked alongside both of the doctor's personalities, but it was no secret she still held reservations about working with the big guy. Bruce couldn't blame her after the helicarrier.

Fury paused, weighing the effort of debating with Romanoff or letting the team have this one. They were all a little raw after Barton's demise and while Fury had a position to uphold, the whole situation had frazzled him as much as anyone. It was hard to order kids, and when did they all start seeming like kids, into situations they probably wouldn't survive, but that was the job. The bottom line was so much greater than the sacrifice he asked for; that was the justification he used to keep warm at night. Every once in awhile someone would sneak past the Director's well fortified walls, leaving their mark on him. Barton had been a rough and broken kid that Coulson had dragged home one day. Somewhere over the years the archer had grown on him, like a scar one had and came grew to accept overtime, a badge of honour, a testimonial to having survived. He would let the team have this one slip. "What's the status of Stark?"

"They want to keep him for observation, make sure whatever's in his system is gone before they release him to home rest," reported Steve. "He was banged up pretty good and pretty out of it when we found him."

"Romanoff, I want you to debrief him the second medical clears it," ordered Fury.

"Is that really necessary? He's one of the good guys, maybe we can wait until he's back on his feet before we start interrogating him?" Steve didn't hold back any of his disdain, even going so far as to cross his arms in defiance.

"Like it or not," growled the Director, "Stark's harebrained scheme got him closer to this Charlie then anyone so far. He has information that could be useful to this target's capture, which you should be all for, or have your forgotten it's the Avengers that he's targeting? And doing a better job than most I might add." It was a metaphorical slap to everyone in the room. "Get it done Romanoff," Fury barked.

Natasha leaned closer to Steve. "Relax, it's not like I'm going to be interrogating him. I'll be gentle," promised Natasha. Even though she was trying for levity, the sincerity of her promise bled through.

"Dismissed." Fury waved the team out. "Except you Rogers,"

All eyes settled on Steve who reluctantly lowered himself back into his chair. As the rest of the Avengers departed they offered him sympathetic glances and nods of support. Their track record of late had been less than exemplary, and Fury seemed even more irate than usual; no one wanted to be the sole focus of anything the Director had to discuss.

Fury waited until it was just him and Rogers, the door firmly shutting the rest of the world out. "Your team is quickly using up any sort of latitude I might afford them."

Steve really couldn't argue; he was barely holding things together by a thread. The team was on the verge of splintering; every step forward seemed to be followed by one step back. Bruce was just going through the motions, Natasha on a self-destructive streak while simultaneously straddling the edge of a complete emotional breakdown and Stark was rallying around all the wrong things. The only people he could claim were handling it even remotely well were Thor and Pepper and they were both one wrong word away from losing their carefully established composure. "We'll get it together, we just need time," he promised.

"Time is a luxury we don't have. I need to know I can count on the Avengers and not spend my time cleaning up messes. You're in charge Captain. I don't care how you do it, but I want this fixed. I _will_ have a team that has their shit together or you're not going to like how I handle it."

Steve didn't doubt a word of it. He needed to get his ducks in a row and get everyone back on the same page, or at least the same book, even if that meant dealing with the one thing they had been steadfastly avoiding for months. He was going to have to be the bad guy and not their friend if they were going to emerge from the darkness of this tragedy.


	18. Chapter 18

Tony shifted, burrowing further into his pillow. He'd never been a fan of the 'coming down' part of harsh substances. Usually though, he did it to himself through wild parties; being subjected to questionable drugs made the hangover feeling that much worse. The headache he knew should be raging if not for the hospital's magic solution that was still bustling around the edges. At least the walls had stopped moving and colors were staying where they should even if things were still a little fuzzy.

A gentle knock at the door pulled his attention away from his pity party. Rogers stood there, brown paper bag and coffee cup firmly in hand. Cautiously, the Captain sauntered in, pulling a chair up next to Stark's bed and wasn't this the part Tony firmly hated, the kid gloves approach to not talking about the things they probably should acknowledge.

"I brought you a coffee and a bagel. I know how much you hate hospital food." Steve passed over the offerings, while avoiding direct eye contact.

"My hero," mumbled Tony, eagerly grabbing the coffee. The joke sucked the air out of the room, turning a spotlight on everything both men wanted to avoid. A Captain America lecture was too much to endure at the moment, especially when it was well earned and truthful.

The silence was growing heavier with each passing moment and the billionaire could only pick at his bagel for so long before the apparent deflection became too painfully obvious. It wasn't going to settle well in his gut anyway, his stomach had been rolling all morning for a multitude of reasons. The line of reality had been greatly skewed leaving some question as to what was real and some wild tangent his mind had wandered down at the direction of his captors. He was nervous to ask the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since waking up in the safety of the hospital, afraid might be an even more apt description.

"Where's Barton?" They had had a funeral, Tony had seen the body in the wake of failure that could only be attributed to him and yet he had a very clear memory of seeing the archer in the room when Brass Knuckles was getting a little too carried away. The information didn't balance and as a man of science, all things had to balance for them to work.

Steve had to lean forward to catch the half whispered question. He didn't know how to answer, hell, he didn't know exactly what Stark was asking.

"I've seen Bruce and Thor and even Natasha skulk past my door and now here you are, but I haven't seen Barton. You'd think after the rescue he'd come to gloat a little." It came out in a rush, a multitude of words to ease the unease burning within. Steve just sat there looking like his dog had just died, which oddly was an answer in and of itself.

"Tony…" he started and didn't Stark just hate that over sympathetic tone.

"He was _there_ Cap," insisted Stark, with more conviction than he felt. He tried to sit up a little straighter, bruised ribs be damned.

"Barton wasn't there Tony, he couldn't be." Stark almost felt a little sorry for Steve. It had sounded more like an apology rather than a fact.

"I saw him Rogers!" Deep down he knew Clint was gone, but he wanted, no needed what he saw to be real. The world was crumbling around him, a psychotic break wasn't going to placate things.

"You were on a lot of drugs. You can't be sure of what you saw but I'm telling you, he's gone Tony. Clint couldn't have been there. As much as we want him to be, he's not." It was the hard blade of reality and he had just speared his friend with it. It was blunt and straight to the point, cruelty for long term kindness.

Indignant, Tony snapped, "Are you calling me a liar?" I know what I saw Rogers!"

Steve leapt to his feet, chair skidding backwards with a horrible screech. "Clint's dead! Charlie killed him and your stupid, reckless, idiotic behavior isn't going to bring him back. It's going to get someone else killed!" His jaw snapped shut with an audible snap; the words were out there and there was no taking them back. It wasn't how he wanted to convey it, but the point still stood.

"Screw you Rogers. At least I'm trying to do something, instead of standing around hoping it all blows over."

"I'm trying to keep this team together. You're not the only one hurting, but if you could pull your head out of your ass for two seconds you might notice someone other than yourself. Do you ever consider that what you do affects other people or is it just all about Tony Stark?"

"We're in this mess because I didn't consider the individual people that are affected by the things I do. I was so busy trying to make the bigger picture better for a price I didn't stop to consider all the variables and naturally it's everyone around me that's going to pay for it. I don't need the golden child to tell me that I screwed up, believe me I _know_!"

Steve deflated. It wasn't often that he got to see the cracks in the shiny metal of Stark's suit and now it was split wide open. There wasn't anything he could say or do that Tony wasn't already doing to himself.

"Natasha's been tasked with debriefing you when medical clears you, but if you don't think you're up to it…"

Tony blinked away the tears he refused to shed and cleared his throat. "No, it should be fine. Did we get him at least?"

Steve looked pained. "No. Agent Brody thinks he left before the Hulk even showed up. His team is tracking down any leads, but so far have come up empty handed. Fury thinks you might know something that could help." Stark made a small choked off sound, but didn't offer any insight into the mystery that was Charlie. "That was a stupid stunt you pulled. Just what were you thinking?"

Thinking? Tony hadn't done a lot of thinking before hand, at least not anything constructive. There was no good answer. His guiding star had been vengeance, a reaction pushed over the edge by a lack of progress in finding Charlie. Under the cold light of logic, it had been reckless and foolhardy leading to a result Stark didn't want to look too closely at. This is what happened when he let people in, began to care, they always left either by choice or some cosmic karma bitch slap that left the billionaire with yet another gaping hole. "Not my finest moment, I'll give you that."

"If you ever pull a stunt like that again, the bad guys are going to be the least of your worries!" huffed Rogers. They were parting words that came off with concern rather than condemnation. "Get some rest, we need you back at the tower." He left the billionaire deep in thought, he had his own soul searching to do. He couldn't expect the team to keep it together if he was white knuckling it himself.

Tony laid there trying very hard not to think about the Captain had said. _Clint's dead_. It was true. Deep down, no matter how much he wanted it to be a lie, he knew it was true. It had to have been the result of a hallucination and deep seeded desire to not be alone. Really it could all be explained away as a coping mechanism fuelled by guilt. A therapist somewhere was going to have a field day with this little break if Tony kept insisting it was real. The revelation left him feeling cold and alone; he just wanted to pretend a little longer.

He was tired, so very tired. He tried to clean up his mess; to make right the sins of him and his father, but that had failed. He tried to balance the scales and bring Barton's murder to justice, but he had not been successful. He had even gone so far as to do the whole self-sacrificing thing in order to get the bad guy, but he couldn't even do that right. He went and created an imaginary Barton to give himself fucking hope, a motivator to hang on until help arrived. There was nothing left other than to fall in line and let the universe take care of things. Thing would naturally take care of themselves, he just had to let the universal current carry him to his natural conclusion.

* * *

Bruce pressed the rewind button again, watching the figures on the screen move backwards. It made about as much sense as it did when he hit play, the characters performing in uncharacteristic manners, expanding the mystery that had been Stark's rescue. He wasn't going to argue with the result, but divine intervention wasn't an answer that settled with him.

He'd never been privy to the inner workings of the Hulk's mind. The most he ever got was a lingering feeling and the physical destruction left in the aftermath. Never really wanting to bear witness to the inner workings of a monster's mind, he'd give anything for a little insight now.

Thor was right, it looked as though the green guy was interacting with something but there was nothing to be seen. "JARVIS, can you search for any anomalies with weather, magnetic fields, anything that seems slightly out of the ordinary for the day in question, hell, was it a full moon?"

"Acquiring the data now," noted the AI.

It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the Hulk was acting in accordance with some unseen force. Being all rage and raw emotion, he might be more in tune with forces of nature that have a bearing on the unconscious mind. Bruce needed something to hang it on other than the Hulk had created an imaginary friend.

"Displaying the information now." The screens in the lab burst to life, animating charts and reports for Banner to examine.

He checked and triple checked everything JARVIS produced, spending an entire night and a good portion of the next day to the cause and still nothing out of the ordinary. If the cause wasn't external then it had to be internal. Isolation and meditation clearly weren't working, maybe it was time to take a different approach.

He pulled out his cell, punched in a text message to Natasha and waited for her reply.

* * *

It never got easier, no matter how many times Pepper found herself sitting outside a hospital room waiting for word on Tony. He took chances all the time, long before he donned a red and gold mechanical suit. She would have to admit though, she had become prouder since Iron Man came into the picture. It was an even greater testament to his growth as a human being that others were keen on keeping vigil with her. She was glad to have company; Bruce a wall of support at her side.

Clint hovered at the edge of the hallway; his concern and worry as great as everyone else's, only he had no one to share with. It felt like an intrusion, listening to people, being near them when they had no idea he was lurking in limbo around them. It was a spy's wet dream being able to gather intel without ever being caught but the insight didn't keep him warm at night or safe from the vast loneliness that was his existence.

"What was he thinking Bruce?" The team wasn't the only ones trying to make sense of Stark's latest questionable course of action.

Banner shook his head. "I think part of the problem was he wasn't thinking."

"And the other part?"

"He was over thinking. This thing with Clint, it still has everyone rattled and looking for answers. And on top of that, there might be a heaping dose of survivor's guilt thrown in there." It was the selfish side of a team member dying, those left were relieved it wasn't them but devastated that it had to be someone.

"If he keeps this up, he's going to be joining Clint. I don't think I can sit here and watch him self-destruct." Tears beaded on her eyelashes before making the slow journey down the gentle curve of her cheeks.

Bruce wrapped his arms around her, holding her safe in his friend's absence. "This one's hard to let go, but I promise you, I'll keep a better eye on him, on all of them."

"But who's going to keep an eye on you? It shouldn't all fall on you Bruce, you've got be hurting too."

Bruce pulled back a little, the events of the day still a little too fresh. She was right, how was he going to hold the others together when he had clearly lost control of himself. "Maybe we should take a little break then. Try and vanquish whatever's haunting us and find ourselves again. When Tony get's out of here, you guys should take a vacation somewhere, somewhere far away from here and all of this."

Clint's heart sank. Tony was the only person who he had contact with that could help and the team was going to whisk him away. Nervous laughter bubbled out of him. If the situation was reversed, he'd have to agree that it was insane, that it would all have been a result of an overindulgent imagination and not someone actually playing the part of a ghost. They would convince Stark that it never happened, that he wasn't real, and perhaps Clint wasn't. Steve squashed the idea immediately, Natasha wasn't sentimental enough to even consider the possibility and Banner was being extremely practical. The only window he had was the Hulk, who wasn't going to carry a lot weight in convincing the team of anything, Tony, who Rogers all but called crazy. Thor, was more of a pipe dream based on nothing more than a culture that wouldn't dismiss the concept rather than any actual ground work with the god.

What little hope he had been nursing was quickly evaporation. It had already been over a month and it wasn't like they were _looking_ for him. To the world he was dead and buried, closure being sought after. If he hadn't convinced them by now, the probability was he wasn't going to.

The archer stumbled along the hallway in a daze, one foot automatically finding its way in front of the other. Was he doing more harm than good in his attempts to reclaim his life? The team had lives and he had… an afterlife? His own personal hell? Some strange cosmic accident that wasn't going to be reversed? Could it even be reversed if he did convince someone of his continued existence? That was the real question. He could continue to haunt them until he finally got through to someone, but there was no guarantee that it was fixable. That wasn't a fate he wanted any of them to endure, stuck like this with some cosmic divide between them. He wasn't even sure his sanity would last through the attempt to reach them, let alone a lifetime of being the friendly ghost at Stark Tower. What if he was the reason they couldn't move on? It wasn't worth the risk, not after over a month and the best he could do was irritate the Hulk and convince Tony he was starting to go mad.

The circus had been home to some strange and gifted people. The gypsy fortune teller's act had always been eerily on point. Maybe someone like that could bridge the gap between Barton and the world or at least shed some light on his current circumstance.

The thought vanished under a sharp and decisive pain radiating from his hand. A bright red spot was blooming from the middle of his hand. Curiously, he rubbed his fingers through it, watching it smear and dry: blood. "That can't be good." The archer hadn't touched anything, there was nothing embedded in his hand, no evidence of anything that would cause a wound. A horrible sinking feeling overcame him. If there was nothing that did that to him there then…

Barton popped in to existence in the main exam room of the New York office's morgue. He had to close his eyes against the nausea, which had seemed to be lessening each time he appeared somewhere, but was now back with a vengeance. Truth was he hadn't actually given his physical form much thought. He was still him, ghost or not, and some body lying in a morgue had been a distant consideration.

"You get the sample from Barton?" asked one of the techs, precariously balancing on two legs of his chair.

His partner pulled off his rubber gloves with a snap before depositing them in one of the hazardous materials bin. "Yeah, I just pulled the blood sample and put it through the machine. Results should be up in the hour."

Clint looked down at his hand and the blood crusted patch.

"Hopefully they get the go ahead. The docs have been chomping at the bit to do a full autopsy. Seriously, it's like a bunch of kids on Christmas eve." The techs chuckled.

Barton's world narrowed to the thudding of his heart. If he felt a simple blood test, how was he going to survive his whole body being hacked to pieces in the name of science?


	19. Chapter 19

Tony sensed her before he rolled over in his hospital bed. He wasn't sure if he should applaud himself for picking up on the sudden disturbance in the universal balance or disconcerted that the Black Widow took the time to slink into his room unnoticed. Rolling over he offered, "Good morning sunshine."

Natasha sat there, looking as imperturbable as always.

"This some secret thrill of yours? Sneaking in on people and watching them sleep?"

"I didn't want to wake you," she explained simply. Somehow less was always more with Natasha. It was everything she didn't say that spoke volumes.

Stark shifted himself to a more upright position. "So Fury wants you to interrogate me?"

"Debrief. The word he used was debrief. If I was supposed to interrogate you it would look a lot different."

"Should I feel special that he held back his desire to send you here with a cattle prod and bamboo slivers?"

"So you admit that what you did was incredibly stupid?" She didn't pause to let him rebut. "Reckless, pointless, selfish?"

"Wow," injected Stark with an over the top affronted look on his face. "Pot, I'm kettle, nice to meet you."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "Well I figured if we were going to point out my self-destructive tendencies, yours were on the table as well." Natasha threw him a blank stare. Giving her the information was playing into her hand, but he wasn't in any condition to try and out play a master spy. "JARVIS keeps the shelves stocked and takes note when he was to fill medical shipments without any documented injuries to account for the discrepancy."

"That's different," corrected Romanoff though Tony had a feeling he might have gotten beneath that unshakable exterior, just for a second.

"Right, master spy, master of ass kicking and lies. So debrief? Could we cut it short if I just tell you I don't remember anything?" It wasn't a lie, he didn't remember anything of consequence to Charlie other than what the man looked like, certainly not what they 'discussed.' The only thing that was clear was his imaginary friend, not something he wanted to divulge to said imaginary friend's actual friend.

"You'd be surprised what you can recall with the right persuasion." It was probably wrong to emphasize persuasion with mischievous smile, but after putting the team through the ringer with worry, Stark deserved to squirm a little. "We'll start with some memory recall techniques and see if we can't figure out what you remember on a subconscious level.

Tony went along with all her mumbo jumbo, feeling equally awkward as he was skeptical, but it beat staring at blank walls. He could picture himself tied to that chair, re-evaluating how much more prepared he should have been, or at least more committed to what it would have took to end things permanently.

_"I know you've been researching my bomb. I have to tell you, it should have been glorious, that kind of destruction, but Barton got in the way. Tell me, what did you do to negate my work?"_

_Tony sat there looking bewildered. The question didn't make sense, even when he eliminated the background noise and distractions that were drug fuelled. He hadn't done anything; wasn't that the problem? He yelped as Charlie slashed at his arm with a scalpel, not deep, just enough to break the skin, however, it felt as though the dragon sleeping in the corner had breathed fire over the wound._

_Charlie leaned in uncomfortably close, spittle and whiffs of garlic from lunch invading the billionaire's personal space. "I asked you what you did to the device that left Barton's body intact!" He wrapped his hand tightly around the scruff of the prisoner's neck, pulling painfully hard on the hair within reach._

_"I didn't have time to do anything!" spat Tony, wrenching his head back._

_"You didn't do anything? Then what did Barton do?"_

_He'd read the reports, reassembled the bomb and re-enacted the situation countless times. If Barton had done something, hell, if the bullets carelessly supplied by the hired help had altered anything, he would have figured it out. "He didn't do anything either."_

_"You want me to believe there was something special about Barton?"_

_Tony didn't get a chance to answer before Charlie buried a wrong end of a tasar deep in his gut._

Stark screamed, shooting straight up in bed, a hasty reaction that sent a secondary wave of pain shooting through him.

"It's alright, you're safe. It's not real," soothed Natasha, pushing Stark back against his pillow.

His chest heaved, breath coming in short rapid pants as the world slowly began to reshape into the present. His hand automatically went to his side, a wound well on the road to recovery but aching as fiercely as it did the day he earned it.

Natasha glanced at her phone as it buzzed.

"So are we done here?" asked Tony, feeling exhausted and raw.

She tapped away at her phone before looking back at Stark. "For now. It doesn't seem like Charlie has anything he didn't have before. You did good Stark. Most people don't hold up regardless what training they've had, you did it without any."

"I'll add it to my resume," he sneered as she headed for the door.

* * *

Tony grimaced, pausing for a moment before taking greater care in how he shifted to get his arm through his hoodie. It wasn't designer and it wasn't classic, but comfort had been the fashion goal when released from the confines of the hospital gown. If he wasn't still painfully sore, he'd take greater pleasure in his freedom. He smiled when he looked up to see Rhodes casually leaning against the door, car keys twirling around his finger.

"You feel better now? Did you get it out of your system?"

Tony shrugged, never put it past Rhodes to set him straight. "Well it was that or a free for all with a gaggle of strippers. And all things considered, well, Pepper considered, that wasn't going to work, so in my defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"A gaggle?"

"Or maybe a clowder? Or may be a dazzle of strippers." Casting his eyes down, Tony mumbled, "Probably a dazzle."

" _Seemed_ like a good idea?" He stood up straighter, irritation coloring his voice. "How does getting yourself captured and tortured seem like a _good_ idea? Maybe leave the big decisions to when you're not drinking, hmmm?"

Stark responded with a self-deprecating smile. "You come here to lecture me? Cause your patriotic Captain already beat you to the punch." It wasn't like he didn't know it was coming. Pepper and Rhodes could always be counted upon to inform him when he was being especially stupid. It was a well established pattern; he would royally screw up and they'd pretend to be angry, well they were angry, and then show him some act of kindness that was supposedly in the vein of family comfort.

"Heard you might need a ride home."

"You came to spring me." Stark walked over, clapping his hand on the Colonel's shoulder as he passed. "Let's roll."

Before he could pull his hand away, Rhodes grabbed a hold, pulling him into a tight embrace. "Glad you're alright. You've got to stop worrying me like that."

The sun was bright, but it couldn't outshine the glint in the billionaire's eye when he caught sight of his Porsche parked against the curb. "Raiding my garage again?"

"It's criminal to keep all the cool toys lock away." He closed the passenger door so Stark wouldn't have to reach over and put undesired pressure on his ribs. Climbing into the driver's seat he revved the engine. "Besides, when else am I going to get to joyride in a sweet ride like this?"

It was a light carefree trip back to the tower, the world's concerns blown away as the sleek car hit the freeway pushing the boundaries of the speed limit. It was too short, and before he knew it the billionaire found himself alone at the tower. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be alone or not; company seemed like work but solitude seemed uncomfortably hard.

"Where is everybody JARVIS?"

"Ms Potts says she'll be back from her meeting in time for dinner as promised. Captain Rogers and Thor are out and Ms Romanoff and Doctor Banner have left instructions to be contacted for emergencies only. They said they were taking some personal time."

"Together?"

"Indeed."

Rogers was right, he needed to pay more attention to going ons of the world. When had that unlikely duo bonded that they would spend social time together outside the tower? "So it's just you and me then. Well fire up the coffee maker, we have work to do."

"Sir?"

"We're going into research mode JARVIS. Security level six A. Either I'm going crazy, in need of a therapist or something's going on here."


	20. Chapter 20

Bruce returned to the tower a little less shaky and a little more in control. Romanoff had found a place that Banner could let the Hulk release his rage in the safety and security Bruce craved. Happily, the agent reported no activity that would suggest an 'imaginary friend' leading the pair to hope it was an isolated incident fuelled by Banner's pent up grief. It was an illusion; the Hulk was a personality he was never going to have control over, but Bruce could keep a lid on his own emotional state. It was probably a bad idea, he was living an existence founded on bad ideas, but he decided to check up on Stark. It was the friendly thing to do and on a more selfish point, a good distraction from everything that was currently wrong in the doctor's would.

He silently took the elevator to Stark's lab, expelling his antagonistic feeling of learning Tony had fallen back into troublesome habits so soon. It was a giant step back when they desperately needed to move forward. Stepping into the lab was like entering a war zone. The ruins of the former example of cutting edge facilities were buried beneath stacks of papers, books and holographic models, even the bots seemed at a loss on how to navigate the landscape and their creator.

"What are you doing Tony?" There was hope in Bruce's voice. Maybe the billionaire had found something else to work on, a new suit or device to mechanize the world's convenience.

Stark glanced over his shoulder. "Back from your play date with Romanoff?" I never took you for the beauty and the beast type. Actually I never took her for it but…"

"What are _you_ doing," redirected Banner. It wasn't surprising that Stark had been spying. It was an ironic concept; the first person to call Fury, Barton and Romanoff out on their skill set was the first to engage and employ those tactics when curiosity got the better of him.

Tony dropped his tools, casually leaning against the counter with a renewed vigor. "Charlie was as perplexed about the outcome of the bomb as we are," he answered simply, as though that was the answer to the universe.

The doctor ground his teeth together. The whole situation was an unrelenting blob that pulled them back in every time there were almost free of the mess. Hesitantly he asked, "Meaning?"

"Meaning, it didn't do what it was supposed to. We assumed that it had functioned perfectly. The effects were selective and there's no way a stray bullet could have changed the explosive effects of the bomb on one person. So there has to be some variable unaccounted for. Apparently, I've been looking at this problem all wrong!" He had been so focused on his part in the demise of the archer that the bigger picture had been shrouded in shades of grey and blood.

"Do you think this is going to bring him back?" It was meant as a rhetorical question, but he secretly feared a literal answer. Tony was obsessive on the best of days, that combined with heavy drinking and seeing ghosts was a hop skip and a jump to a padded room. "Steve told me what you said."

The inventor let out a sharp huff, momentarily demoralized. "No, but I need to know- for science, to keep it from happening again and for Clint."

"We keep dwelling on this and it's just pulling us down, deeper and deeper until we all drown. Nothing good comes from this Tony. It's time to let him go."

"And what if I don't want to? What if I'm tired of the people who matter leaving?"

"Dying and leaving are two different things. You know that right?" asked Bruce with growing concern. "One's a choice and the other unfortunate circumstance. Barton is dead. You're allowed to mourn him but you can't let it consume you. If you do, you're going to lose everyone _living_ that matters to you and that will be their choice because that can't take this anymore. I want you to say it, and mean it."

"Say what?" Tony crossed his arms defiantly.

"Say Clint's dead."

Tony stood there, jaw locked in place as though the words would physically hurt. The truth was they did. Deep down he knew they were right, it hadn't been real, if it was that would mean the archer was a ghost? It was too preposterous to think let alone declare to the world. Nonetheless, he had wanted it to be true, _needed_ it to be.

Banner stood there patiently, prepared to wait as long as it took. This was the moment where they would either lose another team member of save them all.

"Fine," spat Stark, "you're right."

"Not good enough."

"Clint's dead." It was like a spell had been cast. The world suddenly lost its sparkle, replaced with the drab and dull ordinary of existence. It was that painful moment when a child became too old for their favorite toys and had to make the decision to put them away and grow. It was time to stop playing pretend.

"Come and join us for dinner tonight," requested Banner, trying to dim the light shining on the inventor's vulnerability.

Tony turned back to counter looking like a deflated balloon. "Yeah, I just got to clean some things up here."

"Alright." Bruce headed back to the elevator feeling proud and miserable all at the same time. No one wanted to tell a kid the truth about Santa, but everyone had to grow up sometime. He didn't want to do it anymore than anyone else, but it was time to bury the archer and go on living themselves. The doors opened, Bruce stopping short in surprise. "Agent Brody," he greeted. "What brings you here?"

Brody hefted the file under his arm. "Business with Stark."

"He's in the lab, watch the mess." Bruce pounded the floor button a little harder than necessary.

The agent frowned, but opted not to ask, carrying on towards his destination. The meaning quickly became apparent as he stepped over the strewn papers adorning the floor. Navigating the minefield he slammed the file down on the desk. "I'm not your personal message boy Stark."

Tony flinched, looking at the agent bewildered. "What?"

"The mission report from saving your ass and all the collected data research has on Barton," clarified Brody pointing at the file, "the one that you coerced Fury into sharing and requesting that I personally drop off."

Stark started at the file as though it might bite. How far was he willing to go down the rabbit hole for this? Bruce was right, he wasn't gaining ground on this, just slipping further in the abyss. His fingertips grazed the top of the file, resting gently against it. Slowly he pushed it back towards Brody. "I won't be needing that anymore."

Brody bit down on his lip to keep his face from contorting in every emotion he was feeling. It was reminiscent of Banner trying to forestall the Hulk. A million things tried to cross his lips, none of which had a hope of illustrating his frustration, unable to breach his tightly shut jaw. With an overly put upon sense of calm he threw his hands in the air. "You know what? I don't even care anymore. Three more days and I'm out of New York where hopefully my missions will be Stark light."

Tony said nothing, just continued his long staring contest with the floor.

"Just to say I told you, medical estimates they'll have their final autopsy report within the next two weeks, so you can pester them for anything you need from here on in." With that the agent exited the lab, file in hand.

"You know Barton," whispered Tony in the emptiness of the lab, "if ever you were going to prove Steve wrong, now would be a good time. You got from now till I reach the door to prove I'm not crazy. Ready?" It took more effort than it should to get his leg to move forward. With one step came another, the pause between steps growing short the closer he got to the door. He reached the threshold undeterred, unsure if it was a blessing or not. "JARVIS, shut off the lights."

The lab plunged into darkness and Tony went upstairs.

* * *

**One Week Later**

The dark ebony wood door, which was out of place in its technological simplicity and lack of automation yet earned its place in the mighty Stark Tower through its expense and opulence, glided open with the gentlest of touch. Coulson hadn't expected a lot of fanfare upon his return, especially since the circumstances were less than optimal, but the subdued nature of the team gathered around the table was demoralizing. He was just about to run through the protocol for suspected imposters when Tony spoke, offering a tiny semblance of self.

"I was beginning to think you forgot about us Agent." It was a half hearted attempt, sentiment and endearment lost in the dreary tone of a man that looked like his dog just got ran over.

"I wish the circumstances were better and this was a personal visit, but I discovered something in regards to the information you gained on Charlie that might be of relevance." He tried to ignore the uncomfortable twitching from the team that looked nothing like a group of highly capable heroes prepared to go into battle to save the day. Phil glanced at each team member before settling on the clock. The meeting was scheduled to begin and while he expected the likes of Banner and Stark to be late, Bruce more out of single minded focus on another project and Tony out of childish spite, Coulson did not expect a highly trained and respected representative of SHIELD to be shirking his duties. "Will Agent Barton be joining us or is he too good to attend briefings now?"

The agent wasn't sure it was possible but the mood of the room got even colder, the Avengers adopting a hard edge.

A scowl played across Tony's face as he became rigid in his chair. "That's not even remotely funny Agent." It was one thing to have to face the truth, another to be mocked about it.

A nervous chuckle slinked out of Phil, the intensity of the room becoming too much in the wake of a remark that wasn't destined to go down in history as a great laugh riot, but should have been embraced as the note of fond sarcasm that had been so often shared between the tight friendship between the SHIELD agents.

The harsh thud of Thor's massive fist slamming down on the table sobered Coulson, who still couldn't quite find the temperature of the room.

"Did no one tell you?" ventured Steve, his blue eyes caught somewhere between pity and abject misery.

That horrible queasy sinking feeling slammed into the older man. "I don't understand," Phil confessed, clearly missing some earth altering turn of events or the subtle tell that would reveal this as some sort of hazing by the team.

"Sir, Agent Barton was killed in the line of duty two months ago." It was almost cold and deeply hidden beneath formality, but Rogers' face still conveyed a deep ache and sense of loss that the rest of the team was working very hard to bury beneath hints of rage and indifferent professionalism.

It felt like a punch to the gut, the air fleeing his lungs unable to return and Phil had to put his hand out to steady himself. Desperately he sought out Romanoff's eyes; the truth would be there, no matter how Tony convinced them to all go along with such a horrible joke. Natasha refused to meet his eyes, going so far as to look in the other direction.

Coulson could feel it, the knife in his hand all over again, feel it slip into the archer's chest, the last shuddering breath that escaped his friend as he thanked Phil. It was relieving his greatest nightmare, one that he barely survived the first time and Coulson couldn't go through that. "He's downstairs," he snapped angrily hoping that it hadn't been some trick of the light he saw on his way up to the meeting room. He might have been from another reality, but he had connection to these people, surely he would have received word if he had lost one of them.

"Phil," started Bruce, the name tainted both with warning and sympathy.

"Barton was in the lobby," insisted the Agent, panic creeping in his voice. He was sure and no argument by the team was going to convince that what he saw wasn't true and yet they sounded so sure, so convinced.

"He's _dead_ Coulson! We saw the body ourselves," raged Stark, snapping his Stark Industries logo pen in half before throwing it across the room.

"It's true," whispered Natasha, trying to stop the impending fight before it gained momentum.

Phil shook his head. "He's downstairs in the lobby throwing that… that stupid yellow and purple ball against the wall."

Tony turned but stopped short, his mouth gaping open as the words refused to come. His nasty retort dried up in his throat as the last time he saw Clint ran through his head. Changing direction he asked, "Did you say yellow and purple ball?"


	21. Chapter 21

Clint was strangely at peace. All the tension and problems seemed to melt away when he finally embraced his reality. There was nothing left to do but run out the clock of his apparent afterlife. He was dead, his body lying on a slab in the morgue waiting to be dissected and when that happened, whatever freaky limbo he found himself trapped in would cease. What was there to fight for? A lifetime trapped, unable to touch or communicate; that was worse than death.

He certainly wasn't going to burden the team by either haunting them unknowingly or managing to convince them he was still there and being that inconvenience that lurked in the background. Out of sight was out of mind and he couldn't get much more out of sight than dead. Sure they'd try to include him at first, but eventually he'd slide into role of 'make an effort' and then to that obligation category and that wasn't an existence either. They had buried him once, who was he to ask them to do it again?

He decided to spend his days people watching. He had always taken comfort in it during his time in the circus. A hundred faces passing through the crowds **,** all with stories that a lost kid from Iowa could never hope to know but that didn't stop him from making some up. There would be fantastical stories about spies passing off information to overthrow an evil mastermind. Or a member of the royal court sent to find a girl that had been kidnapped as a child and had no idea she was destined to be Queen to the mundane hard working father who had saved all year to take his loving wife and kids out to see the elephants.

He sat cross legged on the security desk, where he would have been in the way under normal circumstance, but now had the perfect vantage point to watch people come and go. Some being properly addressed by security and some not so much; a note really should be sent to Happy about the new guy's lapse in protocol. When there was a lull in traffic, he pulled out his rubber ball; it never hurt to practice and some habits just wouldn't die.

The shots would get more complicated as the day went on, though the fact that he didn't have to account for moving around people was kind of a cheat in difficulty. Thwack, off the potted plant. Thwack, off the revolving door. Thwack, off the railing of the staircase and then off of each step until settling in Clint's out stretched hand.

He was about to throw again when he caught sight of Coulson breezing through the lobby towards the elevator. The former handler had been away for the last few months, reconnecting with an assumed life that was parallel to the one he abandoned. Clint tried not to think about how much he would have relished the chance to say good bye. Phil had done the most for him, more than anyone he ever met but Coulson was the person that the archer showed appreciation to the least. It wasn't that he didn't want Phil to know he was grateful, it was just one of those things that always got put off until later, after the mission, after they saved the day. Now he was out of time and unsure if Phil knew.

The temptation to follow was great, but he held fast. The decision was made, whatever was happening and whoever it involved, it was up to the living to sort it out. He was done.

Thwack. The ball slammed against the wall with tremendous force.

* * *

The stairwell door burst open in a flurry of activity; a commotion only worthy of the team. The noise caught Barton's attention, immediately setting him on edge and searching for the threat that required the Avengers' immediate attention. They followed Phil like rats trailing the Pied Piper moving through the people with a singular purpose like an arrow gliding towards target.

Clint gave everyone a second glance. He must have been getting rusty because no one caught his attention; it was the regular comings and goings of ordinary people. He couldn't help but hold his breath as Coulson stopped right in front of him; more importantly _looked_ right at him.

"Hello Barton."

It was the most amazing sounding thing in the world. For a moment Clint forgot how to do anything other than breath, and even that wasn't going as well as it should. "You can…you…can you see me?" His heart pounded in his chest, the entire universe hinging on the answer.

"Yes."

It was too good to be true. "Actually see _me_?"

Phil gave a faint smile. "I can see you Barton."

"Oh thank god." Clint's arms were wrapping around Phil in a tight hug before he even realized he was moving. It was confirmationthat he was real, a fact even he was beginning to doubt. If a few tears rolled down his cheek to drop on Coulson's immaculate suit, he never said anything, in fact he hugged back.

The Avengers stood in a protective circle shutting out onlookersand passerby. It was one more strange thing to try and make sense of in their lives.

"This is happening right?"asked Stark, leaning closer to Bruce but not taking his eyes off what essentially looked like Phil Coulson wrapping his arms around air. "Cause I'll admit my perception's a little skewed."

"Something's happening," replied Bruce, just as perplexed.

"He's really there?" posed Steve. It was the impossible come to life and for the first time since the team lost a member,he dared to have hope.

"Yes," confirmed Phil.

Steve's head automatically turned towards Tony. The billionaire had been insistent that he had seen Clint during his time at Charlie's compound, but had recently seen the light or so Rogers had thought. Even this was a little far for Stark to go to push his own agenda but the question must have been plastered on the Captain's face.

"Hey, I didn't do this," defended Stark, "I've been drinking _your_ kool-aid remember?"

"He's there as plainly as any of you," repeated the agent.

"Ha!" Tony let out a choked laugh. "In your face Rogers!" No one paid attention to Tony's relief.

Natasha stepped forward, nervous and hesitant. Her eyes glued to the approximate space that Clint should be occupying. "He's really there?" There was a raw edge to her voice, reminding Barton that they were all just as fragile as he was.

"I'm right here Tash."

"Yes, he's here," confirmed Phil, getting a little tired of the repetitiveness.

She reached out, as if searching for the lie, to test what it was that Coulson could see and feel that they couldn't. Her hand moved through the air uninhibited. It felt personal, like somehow she hadn't warranted that personal connection with the archer.

"You can't see him at all?" asked Coulson.

Everyone shook their heads, looking a little more dejected. A miracle could be taking place right before them, but they were unworthy to view upon the glory with their own eyes. They were his team, they had fought alongside him, bled with him, surely they above all others should be able to see what had been right in front of them.

Stark took a large step forward, his hand moving aimlessly through the air in search of the body Coulson claimed was still inhabiting the tower.

"Stop that!" snapped Clint, the hand unobtrusively moving through him. It was hard enough to getting use to the whole concept when people 'accidently' moved through him, but the creepy factor kicked up a notch when someone was intentionally trying to do it. "That weirds me out."

Phil, a seasoned veteran of weird, found himself a little disconcerted as well, but the sheer relief on Barton's face as his hand firmly gripped the archer's forearm was enough to keep his collected presence in check. "Don't do that Stark," he scolded.

Tony raised his hands in surrender before taking a retreating step back towards the rest of the team. There was still a collective sense of unease swirling with tinges of relief. Did they dare to believe only to find out it was all a mistake? Or did they spend the last few months moving on with their lives, leaving a valued team member alone? If the last few months had been new territory, then they had just been up heaved into alien territory.

"Is he all like Casper see-through and shit?" Steve shot an unimpressed glare at the inventor. "What? This is information I'm going to need," defended Tony.

"No!" answered Clint with disdain at the same time Coulson offered a less offended no.

"If I hadn't just witnessed Stark's hand go clear through him, I'd still assume you were all pulling my leg. I don't see or feel a difference at all." Phil still kept a firm grip on Barton, afraid it might be the only tether the archer had to this world.

"Are you alright Clint?" asked Rogers, wincing the moment the absurd question tumbled from his mouth. Of course the man wasn't alright, but guilt needed a balm of knowing that given the circumstances the archer wasn't in any unnecessary distress. He had spent his time since the explosion decimated the team convincing himself that the makeshift family was no more. More importantly, he'd spent his time convincing everyone else that there was nothing left to hold onto.

"All things considered… I'm still here." It was amazing to be able to be seen by someone,but it was a hollow victory if he still couldn't interact or converse with the rest of the team. So close, yet still so far. "I'll be better when we fix this. Can we fix this?" Barton turned towards Stark.

"He's been better Captain, but alright for now. He wants to know if you can fix this Stark," forward Phil.

Tony who had been intently fixating on Barton's spot, fought the urge to go back and look for the magician's trick, snapped back to attention. "I can fix anything," he defended. With mock accusation, he added, "I just need to know what you did Barton." It was odd talking to a blank space, a random point in which Coulson insisted was occupied by their wayward archer. He had long since grown accustomed to JARVIS's presence or lack thereof, but it was different somehow with Clint. It did give him a renewed sense of the awkwardness the others would sometimes display when addressing the AI.

" _I_ didn't do anything. One minute I was there with the bomb and the next I was in the morgue watching Natasha talk to my corpse. Shit, the morgue…" No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Barton doubled over in pain. It radiated deep from within not unlike the puncture wound on his hand, but a million times worse. One hand wrapped protectively around his chest while the other frantically ran over his skin searching or the telltale sign of blood.

"Barton!" shouted Phil, going to his knees with his friend. He tried to pry the archer's hands away to get a better look at what Clint was instinctively protecting. The archer's arms weren't built just for drawing his bow, despite his effort Coulson couldn't seem to unwrap Clint from the tight ball he had curled into. "Talk to me. What's happening Barton?"

"What's happening Coulson?" demanded Natasha. They might not be able to see Clint, but she was all too familiar with Phil's tone. She wasn't the only one to pick up that something was wrong. The rest of the team took an unconscious collective step forward while an oppressive silence swept over the room blocking out the sounds of everyday that floated in the background.

Clint sucked in a long breath forcing his lung to perform their function against their will. It was hard to focus past the pain,but he needed to answer Coulson. "Au…autopsy," he pushed out.

If he hadn't already been kneeling on the ground, Phil would have collapsed there. Not only did the haunting word drop the floor out from underneath him, but it knocked his stomach to his feet. "Natasha." It was a ghost of a whisper over shadowed with fear and concern. Regaining his composure he tried again. "Natasha, get a hold of whatever facility is conducting Barton's autopsy and have the stop, _immediately_."

Her usually tightly graded emotions rippled over her face shattering the porcelain mask she showed the world. Romanoff's body moved on autopilot, fulfilling Coulson's orders while her brain was still trying to process exactly what was going on.

"Stark, Thor, get there now! Make them stop before they kill him," shouted Phil.

"Son of a bitch," cursed Stark, storming towards the doors as his latest suit worked to piece itself together around him. Thor was hot on his heels and the second the pair past the threshold of Stark Tower, they disappeared into the blue sky. All the godly powers and cutting edge technology couldn't make the trip short enough.

"He can feel what they're doing?" stated Rogers, feeling a little queasy at the prospect.

"Just hang on Barton," soothed Phil. He was completely helpless while his friend writhed in agony on the floor, but not even the hounds of hell were going to tear him from Barton's side.


	22. Chapter 22

Jackson flipped through the track list on his mp3 player, searching for something a little more upbeat to lift his spirits. When a black sedan had pulled up to his college with men in suits and carrying badges had told him to come study with them and work with the best, this wasn't what he had had in mind. Fetching things, prep work and waiting for lab results wasn't exactly the cutting edge of the field, more the grunt work of someone beneath him, but he had brought it on himself. Playing personal assistant to one of the biological research teams at this particular branch was penance for poor grades that resulted from some poor life choices during his first semester at SHIELD academy.

Reaching the morgue's vault he punched in his security code and waited for the green light to flash. With the lock popping open, Jackson pulled the heavy door open, shivering as a blast of cold air hit him hard. Not wanting to belabor the process he scurried inside and began scanning for the right cabinet. "Number twenty-seven, Barton C," Jackson mumbled as his eyes roamed over the rows and columns of cabinets. "There you are."

He slide the drawer open. He'd done it half a dozen times now, but there was still something eerie about pulling a body out from the freezer. "You've been here long enough, buddy." Number twenty-seven had been occupied before Jackson started his 'internship' last month, which was an oddity to start with but the rumors around its occupant ranged from the incredible to the unreal. No one with any authority ever talked about the contents but that didn't stop the worker bees from speculating. Jackson was a little disappointed that it was a human and not some spectacular alien with three heads as the night guard had insisted.

He slid the slab off the drawer and on to the cart for transfer up to the second floor. Everyone had been a buzz about new research opportunities and finally getting results to tests that they had been waiting months for. Apparently the not alien he was ferrying up was a big deal. "Today's the day. The science teams have been dying to get a hold of you."

Cranking the volume on his headphones, Jackson and the occupant of locker number twenty-seven made their way to the elevator. The lab was quiet and empty; not at all what Jackson had been expecting given the buzz this morning. He set to work placing his curried package on the examination table, finding a hastily written note taped to the table. He rolled his eyes at the detailed instructions for setting up the set of tests, glancing at the clock that taunted him with the promise of end of shift freedom.

"Figures," he mumbled, resigning himself to some unpaid overtime while the science team's meeting ran late. He grabbed his backpack that he had tucked on the bottom shelf of the cart for a hasty getaway and pulled out his wireless speakers. If the science team wasn't there, no one would object and since he was technically off the clock, it couldn't hurt to drown out the rest of the world. Cranking the music up to raising the dead volume, he set to work on his new instructions.

There was something about getting lost in music that made mundane tasks fly by. Printing out the results of the first test, Jackson began to pull out the cold steel implements in preparation for the dissection portion. Home time was so close he could almost taste it. As he set down the tray of tools, a hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. A loud metallic clang filled the room as the tray and its contents tumbled to the ground. Jackson stared in awe as his eyes traveled up the formidable metal arm from his wrist to the intimidating mask of Iron Man himself.

"Tell me everything you've done to that body today," demanded the hero.

* * *

"JARVIS, lights." The lab exploded in a bath of light, shedding the depressing darkness and painting the room in hope. Tony strode in with renewed vigor and purpose, Coulson and presumably Clint in tow. Like a well practiced dance the machines turned on and programs popped up in anticipation of their creators needs. Even DUMMY seemed to mirror Stark's mood.

"JARVIS, make sure to lock down lab seven when Steve and Bruce have everything secure and restrict access to everyone but me without my direct and explicit authorization. Drop the temperature to minus thirty degrees. Make temperature control a priority." Stark was a flurry of activity while Coulson co-opted the nearest stool.

Phil could put together a tactical mission, infiltrate a highly secure military facility but helping with the science behind this particular problem was so beyond his skill set, it was in another universe. There was nothing to offer the situation except to play translator between Clint and the rest of the world.

Barton perched himself on the edge of one of the tables. "Not to tell you how to do your job Tony, but how does turning me into a Popsicle get me back in my body? I mean, it worked out for Cap and all, but I kind of lack the whole super soldier aspect."

Phil tipped his head slightly to the left where the archer was sitting. "Barton wants to know how do we bring him back to life if his body's still frozen?"

Tony paused his tapping at the screen. "Did he phrase it exactly like that?" Being able to 'talk' to Barton was a relief but it didn't seem right, like buying a knock off version of a highly sought after possession, close but not exactly right.

"I'm paraphrasing."

Clint chuckled and moved to peer over Stark's shoulder.

Stark nodded, more to himself than to acknowledge Phil. Looking beside the agent he explained, "I'm good and everything, well actually, I'm the best, but this might take some time. And since we're already defying the rules of death, I don't have time to fight the war against decomposition too. So unless you want to rock the whole zombie look, then you sit on ice."

Phil cleared his throat in a half hearted attempt to hide his chuckle. He subtlety pointed to beside Tony. The inventor frowned looking over both shoulders. "He's beside you now," enlightened Coulson.

Tony rolled his eyes, shifting to face where he imagined Barton would be. "I have all the data the lab collected, what Brody managed to gather from Charlie's base and the work I had been doing before, what I don't have is anything out of the ordinary that you might have experienced."

"Out of the ordinary?" snorted Barton, sauntering back to sit on the table. "Let's see… Oh I died and spent two months as a ghost that no one could see."

"Given the circumstances, he'd like you to be a little more specific," passed along Coulson.

"Eliminating the obvious," started Tony, turning towards Phil as the agent snapped his and pointed towards the table. Not hiding his irritation, the billionaire shifted his focus to the new location. "If I had a specific example, I wouldn't need Barton to figure this out. Just anything that happened before the bomb and after. And if you don't stop moving around when I'm talking to you Barton, I'm going to ask your human Ouija board to leave."

The billionaire waited a beat. "No witty response from the peanut gallery?"

"It was an obscene hand gesture I didn't feel the need to pass along," said Phil.

Silently Romanoff slinked into the lab, settling on a stool in the corner of the room. Close enough to keep an eye on what was going on, but with enough distance to be an unobtrusive observer. This was a problem that was out of her area of expertise. There were no secrets to unearth, no bad guys to eliminate, just science and a lot of luck to bring their missing family member home.

"Right," chuckled Tony. He tossed a tablet at Coulson. "Why don't you two get busy in putting that data, while I go over the last report from the morgue. Natasha, be a dear and look into getting me Barton's medical files; the uncensored, detailed versions."

* * *

**Two Days Later**

Bruce stood like a statue at the last corner before the lab. The last time he had set foot in Stark's sacred space, he hadn't really endeared himself to the inventor. No matter the circumstance or the outcome, he had done it with the best intentions. Weird twists of fate aside, Banner had been watching a friend drown in grief, pursuing a path that was leading nowhere. He wasn't alone in his concern, Steve had been fearful of Tony chasing ghosts. The fact that Tony turned out to be right was the elephant in the room. While they had been trying to save Tony, the billionaire had been trying to save Clint.

While Steve could hide behind good intentions, Bruce knew he should have at least considered Stark's case. He was a man of science, hell, he'd created a giant green monster, of any of them he should have been at least open to the possibility. The simple beast had been more perceptive in this case than he. There lied the problem and the chains of hesitation that kept him shackled to that spot in the hall; how was he going to apologize for something he was both entirely sorry for and yet not?

There were more important things going on than just his friendship with the billionaire. Barton deserved every chance and resource available to save him. There was no time to tiptoe around personal relationships, he was just going to have to bite the bullet and go into the lab, whatever Stark's feelings for him and his 'good intentions.'

Tony was hunched over the table, absently flipping through the pages displayed on its screen. He looked haggard, like he hadn't surfaced from the depths of his Candyland since they learned that Barton was still around. Knowing how responsible Tony had felt for Clint's death, Bruce knew he probably wouldn't leave until he made some breakthrough **.** There were discarded plates and cups strewn around the lab, evidence of a camp out by several people, though Tony was alone now.

"Where is everybody?"

Tony glanced up, letting his head drop back down just as quickly. "Coulson needed a break and Romanoff doesn't need to be here twenty-four-seven either."

It made sense that the spy would lurking near her partner and Coulson had a particular skill set in this situation. Thor had gone back to Asgard to search for anything that might provide a solution and Steve had filled the only position he could offer anything to with this particular problem, keeping Pepper in the loop and distracted from fussing over Tony. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce caught the odd sight of a basketball propped up on a stand with a picture of Clint taped to it. "What's that?"

"That? Oh it's Barton. I got tired of talking to thin air, I needed something to focus on," offered Stark as if it was an everyday occurrence.

The possibility of getting Barton back was an energy, alive and crackling, spurring each team member to rise from their former melancholy, even if there was nothing for them to do. The danger was what if they couldn't figure it out. Bruce and Tony had a brilliant track record of solving the team's problems, but what if this was just beyond their capabilities. "This from the guy who created JARVIS, which is essentially like talking to thin air."

"Hey, don't analyze this too closely. You're not that kind of doctor, remember?" There was almost a hint of the playful banter that sparked between them.

Bruce took a seat opposite Tony and ran his thumb up the large stack of papers practically exploding from the file that thought it could contain such a pile. "What's this?"

"Barton's medical file from his time with SHIELD and anything they could obtain about his medical history pre-superspy."

"It's not a light read, is it?" The doctor had seen firsthand that their archer could take a beating and keep going, that he was willing to go through hell for a cause he believed in but it was something else to see the evidence of how often that transpired in such a visible manner.

"No," answered Stark sadly, "but it is an interesting read."

"Anything that could shed some light on his current status in there?"

"I have JARVIS running a few projections based on Barton's more interesting missions, but nothing stood out that would have such an impact on him that would cause this. Even exploring the obvious like the effects of the Tesseract haven't reproduced the results of the bomb."

"What about the chemicals they used to wipe our memories?" It wasn't an earth shattering thought, Stark had probably already considered it, but it kept the dialogue going. "He received far greater doses than you, me or Steve did."

"Already tested that hypothesis since it most directly dealt with Charlie and nada." Tony finally looked at Banner as a heavy silence fell between them. It wasn't that long ago that Bruce had forced him to let go of any hope he had that Clint wasn't really dead. He wasn't a genius for nothing, even desperately clinging to hope, he could see how preposterous it had been. Still the easiness had slipped from his relationship with the team, replaced by pity and his self-loathing.

Bruce tried not to fidget as he pondered what to say next. Going with straight forward tact, he blurted, "Well this is awkward. You were right…"

"I usually am," countered the inventor.

"… there was a ghost around this place."

"What can I say, I'm Ebenezer Scrooge, billionaire with ghosts of past, present and future atrocities."

"Look, I'm trying to say I'm sorry."

Stark gave him a long look, somewhat caught off guarded by the statement. "If you're really sorry, you'll man the Ouija board." He pointed a thumb towards a rather cluttered desk. Resting on top of the discarded tools and abandoned trinkets was a Ouija board.

Bruce looked skeptically at the billionaire.

"What? I told you Agent was on a break. And I can't run the board and have brilliant moments in science at the same time"

"You've been using an Ouija board to communicate with Clint?"

Stark put on a straight face. "Yes."

Relenting, Banner moved over to the other workstation. Pushing down his awkwardness he began to move the planchette around the board like he's seen done in many a cheap horror movie. He felt completely ridiculous, but if it actually worked, it would be worth it.

Tony fought to keep the smile off his face as he watched his friend try to get in touch with his 'spiritual' side. It was childish and immature and a desperately need break from staring at countless lines of text that were getting him nowhere.

"What's Dr Banner doing?" asked Coulson, strolling in looking well rested and carrying a takeout bag.

"Entertaining me," declared Tony, loud enough for the doctor to hear. "What did you bring me?" Bruce abandoned this board to join the group at the other workstation, choosing to let the billionaire's joke slide.

Coulson deposited the bag on the table. "Breakfast. Figured you probably hadn't taken a break since last night. Natasha's bringing coffee." Stark frantically ripped open the bag and began devouring the first bagel.

"We can pick up where we left off then," mumbled Tony around a mouthful of food.

Phil slumped a little. "We're just waiting on Clint."

Stark almost choked on a mouthful of bread. "You lost Casper?"

"I didn't lose him, he said he wanted to get a breath of fresh air this morning and isn't back yet. I think recounting the last few months was particularly hard on him. I figured I give him until breakfast then go looking for him."

"Right." It was easy to forget that Clint had been the silent sufferer through the whole ordeal. The team's pain had been tangible; Clint only had himself and a growing shadow of despair to keep him company. "Well it's not like I've had a breakthrough yet, so I guess you both can take the morning off."

"I'll check in with you this afternoon." Phil departed with a smile filled with hope, the kind that had been so foreign from the tower lately.

"Why agent?"

Banner paused in unwrapping his bagel. "What?"

"Why does Agent get to see him and we can't?" asked Stark conspiratorially.

"Are you taking it personally?"

Tony leaned in closer. "Do you think we should?"

"No," whispered Bruce.

Shrugging his shoulders, Tony reached for a napkin. "It does give me an idea though. JARVIS, go through SHIELD and pull up Coulson's files, medical, missions; prioritize any similarities with Barton's file and anything verified by this Coulson as being the same between the two versions."


	23. Chapter 23

"What do Barton and Coulson have in common?" asked Tony, practically appearing out of nowhere. Banner snapped out of his daze, surprised at Stark's quick return. Natasha and he had sent the billionaire to get some sleep, hoping a nap would help stave off the bone weary exhaustion that threatened from being consumed by such an important project. The doctor had dutifully taken over painfully dissecting every line of text from all relevant mission reports to the point that the words seemed to blend together into one giant black blob staining the page. Natasha had been the silent sentinel keeping watch in lieu of any theoretical contributions.

He paused for a moment, more occupied by the riddle then of seeing Tony rocking back and forth on his feet like an over excited was a nice change compared to the brooding and bitter man that had been residing in the tower for the last few months. "They both worked for SHIELD?" hazard the doctor.

"Try again."

"Um, they're both deadly in that secret agent sort of way?" Banner didn't want to trample on Tony's tenuous happiness, but he couldn't quite figure out where this new train was heading.

"You're not very good at this game Bruce," commented Stark, spinning around in his chair as he sat down. "Less obvious. Something they don't have in common with thousands of other people."

"They can both tolerate you." Natasha's deadpan stare conveyed an extreme sense of disdainfor their current game.

"True, but a little more helpful to this situation," conceded Tony waving his hand for Bruce to continue.

Bruce shrugged his shoulders. "I… I don't know. Nothing in these files suggests anything that should react the way it did."

"That's because it didn't happen to them together. It happened separately."

"Spill it Stark before I beat it out of you," warned Romanoff.

"Remember when Loki came back and took advantage of that little experiment the Council had conducted on our good archer?"

Natasha's jaw tightened and her eyes hardened. Not only had it been a personal betrayal by an organization that was supposed to support them, but she had very nearly lost Barton to someone she swore she would protect him from. "It's hard to forget."

"Right, and we fixed him all up with that onyx orb and…"

"That's what brought Coulson to this dimension," finished Bruce, with the same enthusiasm as Tony. "If that had some impact on Barton's cellular structure then that could explain why Coulson can see Clint, he could be out of phase with this reality."

Stark snapped his fingers. "Bingo! I'm thinking that Charlie's modifications reacted with some markers from the orb and shifted him out of synch with the frequency of what this world can perceive. The differences in universes could be just that Coulson can still see him, feel him. Gamma radiation just might have fine tuned the Hulk's senses enough that he can pick up on things us mere mortals cannot."

"So there's a possibility that that people that claim see ghosts might be right" posed Bruce.

"I'm not ready to certify all mumbo jumbo as legit." Stark shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe they can sense shifts in dimensional boundaries."

"That doesn't explain your claims of having seen Barton," interrupted Romanoff.

"I had chemicals messing with my sense of reality; I wasn't operating at optimal levels, but it just might have been enough to open my eyes briefly to things we normally miss. So now all we need is the orb and we can run a few tests and see if we can't figure out a wayto reverse this. So what deep dark hole do you think Fury put it in?"

"I can find out," declared the redhead, finally having a task that she could perform.

"While you're doing that, Bruce and I can switch our research over to the notes Bruce brought back on the orb."

* * *

At some point morning slipped into afternoon and the comings and goings of the other team members through the lab went largely unnoticed through the haze of focus Banner and Stark were directing towards their new wave of thought. The only goal was to understand what happened; neither wanted to contemplate what would happen if it couldn't be reversed; one couldn't un-cook dinner after it was made.

There was a lot of pressure riding on them and Tony even went so far as to throw Phil and Clint out of the lab. Coulson had definitely left, he could never be sure about the archer. If it had been the billionaire, he would be a ball of impatient nervous energy asking a million useless questions in a never ending string of annoying sound. Barton was always reserved and quiet and Coulson did his best to filter what chatter Clint was directing at them, but Tony could still hear the questions running through his head. If Agent wasn't in his line of sight, he could pretend they were working on a theoretical problem.

Tony could pretend all he wanted, his mind still wandered back to the magnitude of the situation. "Stockholm," he whispered.

Bruce looked blearily up from his notes not sure what he missed. "Stockholm? As in a nice place to visit?"

"As in a condition in which one comes to identify and sympathizes with their captor."

"And you think you have this?" Bruce let the last word trail off, unsure if he understood where Stark's random fact was going. Perhaps another nap was in order before they both started making mistakes that could derail their research.

"No." He looked like his dog had just died. "He tried to tell me that he was stuck, that he couldn't leave, wouldn't leave, that he was still here," confessed Stark.

"Who?" The doctor pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Something was bothering his friend beyond the obvious.

"Barton!" declared Tony in an explosion of movement. He got five steps away from his chair before turning sharply around. "I called him on having his own place, _places_ , besides the tower and he made some joke about hanging around here more and more, unable to leave."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it negatively," Banner tried to sooth.

"I _know_ he didn't, but he tried to tell me he was here when I was playing houseguest to Charlie and I just brushed it off. He was communicating with the Hulk, you know?"

Bruce sighed. "I heard." It had been a personal blow to the doctor. He had believed something was wrong with the Hulk, that he had lost any of the imaginary control he believed he had had but it wasn't the Hulk that had been the problem, it had been him. Wasn't that the moral of most children's stories; the monster isn't the problem, rather man?

"We failed him Bruce! We're supposed to protect people and save the world and we can't even protect our own. We need to do better, not just for us but for them, the world."

"What are you proposing?"

"I don't know, but we need something better than the six of us; something infallible." It was a mighty concept but the stakes were too high to keep playing at amateur hour. The problem with being human was being limited, flawed. Their egos had gotten the better of them, believing they that anything they came up against would wilt and cower on their name alone.

"Sir, Agent Romanoff has left word that she, Captain Rogers and Master Thor are commandeering your private jet to retrieve the orb from a secure SHIELD facility," reported the AI.

The two men shared a look. "Where is the field trip going and why weren't we invited if she requires all that muscle?" There was the obvious answer, but it still didn't set Stark at ease that Natasha felt the need to bring a few extra hands when heading for ally territory.

"She refused to divulge that information but a flight plan has been submitted for Denmark. Her instructions were that you and Doctor Banner continue you work."

"Keep tabs on any SHIELD comm. traffic and all news coming out of or into Denmark, JARVIS and see if you can't get an exact location in case those kids run into trouble." The AI set dutifully to work allowing the remaining Avengers to continue on with their task at hand.

* * *

The seconds between moments seemed to stretch on forever, but there was nothing to fill the time with. Clint had the best people in the world working on the problem but it didn't provide the ease of being the one getting his hands dirty to find a solution. There was also the tingle of doubt playing at the hairs on the back of his neck that this might be the problem too great to solve, that the line of no return had been crossed.

Barton felt another presence near him long before the telltale shadow fell beside him. "How'd you know I was here?"

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, Coulson crouched down to sit on the bridge beside the archer, mirroring his position of dangling his legs over the edge. Phil never shared his friend's love of heights, but he would gladly saddle up beside him on the park bridge arching over the lazy stream. "You used to come here a lot when on medical stand down in New York. At risk of tarnishing my reputation, this is the _third_ place I looked."

A soft smile curved across Clint's face. It was easy to pass the time here, watching the mother ducks take their ducklings out for their first swim while happy families picnic on the gentle rolling green slopes. It was the best and most accessible display of exactly what it was SHIELD was fighting for. A long forgotten park tucked out of the way of normal traffic, visited by a select few who sought an escape from the sights and sounds of the busy city. It was a living snapshot of all the things Clint had dreamed for his life when he was a kid lounging in the fields by his home making shapes out of big, puffy clouds.

"Yesterday seemed hard on you," prompted Phil.

"Yeah." He punctuated the sigh with a sharp laugh. "Just got me thinking is all."

"Do you want to share?"

"I've spent my whole life trying to be invisible, first from my father, then certain people in the circus, my brother. My whole career is based on my ability to hide from everyone and I'm good at it. But it's different when you have a choice, you know?" Coulson gave a brief nod but didn't interrupt Barton's flow. "When I finally wanted to be seen, they didn't know I was there. I'm not mad, who would even have ghost as a possibility in their thought process, but I guess I just didn't think I could be so easily erased from the world."

"Clint, I saw their faces when they told me you had died, you've left an impact, not only on the Avengers but all the lives you've saved over the years. There are so many people that get to have this," Phil waves his hand underlining the happy people going about their quiet Sunday family moments, "and that's because of you."

"Yeah, but what if I wanted it? I always told myself there was tomorrow, I could put off the long term relationships and the family for tomorrow, for when the world wasn't on the edge of self implosion and now there might not be time. Tony might not be able to fix this and then what? I was always afraid I was going to turn out like my father and now I wished I'd had the chance to prove that I wasn't him."

"Don't tell him I ever said this, but there's very little Stark can't do and this isn't going to be one of those things. If it's something you really want, I know you can make it work with this crazy life we lead."

"Something tells me Natasha doesn't share that view on things." At some point it became hard to imagine a future without the redhead, it hadn't been a conscious thing to have her in every aspect of his life, just something that had fallen into place.

"Ah. I think you owe it to yourself to find out."

"Why does that seem like a scarier proposition than waiting to find out if I'm going to be a real boy again? Family hasn't exactly been a positive experience in my life, but this weird dysfunction the team has, it's kind of what I imagined it could be. I don't want to lose that by gambling on something Natasha may not want."

"I can't tell you what her decision might be but, in light of what's happening right now, I don't think you're ever going to get a more honest answer."

"That's what I'm afraid of," mumbled Barton, to low for Phil to catch.

Getting to his feet, Phil placed a warm reassuring hand on the archer's shoulder. "We should really get back, the team gets kind of nervous when they think you're not around and I think Stark has Doctor Banner convinced you communicate to them with an Ouija board." Clint laughed, the first real genuine laugh since the whole mess started.


	24. Chapter 24

The car came to a gentle stop in the parking garage, the tall concrete poles as unimpressive and non distinctive as the setting itself. Natasha shifted the vehicle into park and unfastened her seatbelt though her companions did not move.

"Explain it to me again. If we work for SHIELD and this is a SHIELD controlled facility, why are we _stealing_ anything?" demanded Steve, slow and steady.

"I concur," added Thor, from the back seat. "Should our allies not want to aid us in our quest to heal a great warrior who has fought for them?"

Romanoff held back her glare. " _You're_ not stealing anything, I am, you two are just the distraction. Fury may support this plan but the World Security Council isn't going to sanction us taking something with that kind of power and giving it to Stark to play with, especially if it's Barton." Her demeanor became more rigid as she growled, "They view him as particularly expendable."

The sentiment was carried through the car. The Council's trial and experimentation of Barton was still an open wound between the two forces; forgiven for the sake of the world, but in no danger of ever being forgotten.

Things were always grey with SHIELD when the matter should be as simple as black and white: the good guys and the bad guys. It was probably the thing Steve missed most from before the war. "And just how are we supposed to distract them?"

"You're Captain America and Thor, here to tour the facility as a favor to Fury. Just act official and mighty and your reputations will take care of the rest. They'll be so busy trying to impress you, they won't be keeping tabs on me. Never underestimate the need to please superiors. So are we clear on what's going to happen or do I need to include pictures?"

"As mud," spit Steve getting out of the car.

She caught Thor's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "I just need thirty minutes."

"Understood."

A well dressed and official looking group was waiting for the team when they cleared security, which compared to other facilities Roger had visited, was frighteningly more efficient. "Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, Thor. Director Fury informed us you would be arriving. I'm Agent Donovan," greeted the first man, offering a firm handshake to each of them. "If you'll follow us, I'm sure you're anxious to start your tour."

"Been looking forward to it," answered Steve with forced cheerfulness.

Romanoff took a step back from the group. "Well you boys have fun. I'm sure it will be fascinating."

"You won't be joining us Agent Romanoff?" asked Donovan.

Natasha shrugged. "Well you know, you seen one SHIELD base you've seen them all."

Rogers stepped in front of Natasha as she opened her mouth to continue answering. "She was just our escort. It's just Thor and I that were interested in how you managed to run this place so efficiently."

"Aye," concurred Thor.

Donovan seemed to mull over the idea for a moment. "The cafeteria is on the third floor if you'd like. Gentlemen, if you'll follow me, please."

The delegation led the way followed by Thor. Steve gave Natasha an unimpressed look before trailing behind the group.

"You boys have fun," she called out after them. Steve could pull off a lie but there were little ticks that betrayed his complete and utter discomfort if one looked hard enough. He protested the underhanded side of the spy business at nauseam, but Natasha had to admire what he was willing to endure for his team.

* * *

Complacency was the greatest companion a spy could have. Without the blare of alarms and impending doom, security tended to let its guard down to the bare bones of protest. The camera system was easily rerouted to shield Natasha's movements. Part of her was offended at just how easy it was for a perceived ally to infiltrate parts of the compound, but the benefit in this situation was hard to ignore.

"You're not supposed to be here," called the guard at the end of the hall.

Romanoff raised her hands in surrender. "I have my clearance right here." She didn't stop her forward momentum, advancing until the guard was within reach before striking out. A sharp turn to evade a fist, she tuned with swift ease, bringing her leg up and tightening it around the guard's neck until his struggles ceased.

"When you wake up, I suggest you spend some serious time brushing up on your combat skills," she muttered, pulling the access panel apart to expose the wires tangled underneath. Deft fingers stealthily navigated the circuits, clipping the appropriate wires in order to deactivate the final alarm and open the vault door. "Shit!" she muttered as the final wire snapped causing the lights to blink out and the emergency warning lights to flash. "A new failsafe. Why is it no one trust anyone anymore?"

The failsafe not specified on the blueprints Fury had provided, was only a momentary roadblock, the vault door slide open but the damage was done. The alarm would alert the base of the security breach and the best she could hope for was a five minute delay while they figured out exactly where the breach was. The Black Widow sprinted past the computer banks housing the compounds most precious secrets in search of the safe housing the orb.

The safe was just as easy as the door minus the surprise alarm, cracking to reveal the precious object within. "There you are." It had saved Barton once before, which only added to its beauty; now it would get the chance to do it again. The pounding of footsteps echoed down the hall heralding the arrival of unwanted visitors. She glanced at her watch; a minute early, earning them a point competency on that front but no less a hitch in her escape plan.

Switching out the orb with the fake she tucked it safely away in her pouch and moved back to the computer banks. Pulling out a flash drive from her pocket, Romanoff jammed it into an open port and began downloading files from the server. She didn't tense as the person behind her let out a long frustrated sigh.

"Tell me we're not pulling some side mission here," demanded Rogers.

Natasha abandoned the computer. "Well this is a mess. No. But if they think that's what I was here for, then they wouldn't be looking for the orb. Where's Thor?"

"Being a distraction."

"And you thought you'd come down here and make sure I was alright? I'm touched Captain," purred the Black Widow.

Captain America didn't rise to the bait. "Did you get it?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill him?" he asked pointing to the body slumped in the hallway.

"He'll be fine in a couple of hours. Quick, this way, we can avoid hurting anyone that comes down here intending to kill us." The sarcasm was as heavy as the disapproval.

The Black Widow was impressive in the field, but there was something about the coldness and almost machine like way Natasha distanced herself from the blood on her hands that left Steve cold. Her cold exterior wrapped tightly around a never ending supply of lies and deceit. They just kept building up, forcing cracks within the delicate structure that was supposed to be the team dynamic; a white lie from Natasha here, and omission from Clint there, Tony and Thor's self-serving independence sprinkled throughout. "These men are on our side."

"Not right now they're not." Romanoff pulled on Rogers' sleeve to get him to follow her. While Fury wouldn't be spared from having to explain why he sent people to break into secure areas of the base, there was a chance they'd never know the real prize Romanoff had been sent to claim.

The tension on the ride back to the plane wasn't from being on the run, but the very clear line that existed between Natasha and Steve. Rogers' life consisted of rule, morals that were to be upheld while Natasha's seemed to be built on how many she could break and blur until there was nothing but mud coloring everything. The methods were hard for Steve to justify but the results weren't arguable. It was one more thing that made him feel out of place, in this world and sometimes on the team.

He tried to think if there was anything he wouldn't do if it was Bucky that needed to be saved. Perhaps it was easier to uphold the right when he never had to be tested like that. He had to admit the list of things he was willing to do for the team was getting longer and longer.

Thor was waiting on the tarmac by the plane when they drove up looking somewhat pleased and showing no sign of wear.

"You get away OK?" asked Steve, needing to check despite the evidence.

"Yes, but we should hurry, they will regroup and be here shortly."

There was a sense of relief as the plane took off unopposed. The powerful jets bring them closer to New York and saving Clint.

* * *

Natasha gratefully placed the orb into Stark's outstretched and waiting hand as the team returned to the tower. It was like giving kids a handful of candy, the way he and Banner lit up and feverishly placed it on the table for JARVIS to analyze.

"Problems?" asked Tony, looking at a group clearly coming down from an adrenaline high.

"No, should there be?" replied Natasha. There was a note of defence in her voice.

Tony gave a half-hearted shrug. "You've been one to shy away from heavy lifting before, but you brought a lot of extra muscle with you." It was a keen observation that he would normally want to pick apart but if none of them were going to be forthcoming, he was willing to leave the particulars for another day.

"Don't worry about it," chimed in Steve. They needed to focus on the task at hand and leave the questionable decisions leading up to resurrecting Barton for a latter day.

"Whatever. Bruce and I think we might have something. We just have to run a few projections now that we have the orb." Banner's enthusiasm from behind Tony only supported what Stark was saying.

It was almost the same feeling as when Clint had died; minutes stretching out forever and nothing to fill them with. This time the game was hurry up and wait for good news instead of waiting for the bad news to sink in and take permanent hold. No one wanted to breathe in fear that they might have come this far only to have the plan not work. It would be a shame to trip over the finish line when they were so close.


	25. Chapter 25

The living room was so quiet, they could hear a pin drop. The gentle rustle of a page being turned in a book or magazine that wasn't actually being read was the only sign that anyone was actually alive there. It was a fight that couldn't be waged by muscle or spy skills, regulating the majority of the team to the sidelines to wait. They had started with a half hearted attempt at watching a movie to pass the time; conversation proving a little awkward having to translate through Coulson. When no one could focus on the film, they switched to painful silence dressed as reading.

Clint resorted to pacing the room to expel his nervous energy. He was like a kid on Christmas eve, feverishly waiting to find out if he was going to rewarded for good behavior or if one little slip in the year was going to yield a lump of coal come morning.

"Agent Coulson, Sir has requested your and Agent Barton's presence in the lab," interrupted JARVIS.

The tension in the room kicked up a few notches as all eyes fell on Coulson. Phil looked to Clint who gave a quick jerky nod. "We'll be right there."

The atmosphere in the lab had changed since last they were there. The optimism had been replaced with a sense of caution. Stark seemed more reserved, almost apologetic while Banner nervously fiddled with the stack of papers in front of him.

"Oh this can't be good," sighed Clint.

"Are we all here?" Tony's eyes settled on Phil.

"Yes." Phil forced himself to relax and focus on his job as translator. Wherever the conversation led, he wouldn't help the situation if he let his emotions color his purpose for being there.

"We think we have it," proclaimed Stark boldly, but Bruce only offered a shy smile.

Clint pushed down the queasy feeling rolling in his gut. " _Think_?

"It's kind of a one shot deal. If we do actual tests beyond JARVIS's projections, which for the record are up there with actual physical tests, there won't be enough energy to use it on you. As we know the orb is charged with Tesseract energy and the jolt it got from you was slightly depleted when it helped bring Coulson here. There isn't much left," explained Tony in a rush, like the words would sting less the faster they were put out in the universe; like ripping off a Band-Aid.

"So it's a one shot deal?" It was like standing on the platform waiting to take that fateful step on to the high wire back at the circus. It was all going to come down to a moment of amazement or certain death.

"Yeah. Sorry. It's up to you. I'm pretty sure it's going to work, like ninety-seven percent sure, but I don't know what's going to happen to you in your body. That's the one variable I can't account for."

"So you could bring me back but I could still be dead?"

"We'd take every precaution. Tissue decomposition is almost nonexistent, SHIELD got the body on ice pretty fast and their preservation techniques are incomparable. It's just the neurological effects that we can't determine. Your brain was without oxygen for awhile, but this situation is unprecedented. You're here, talking to Coulson, it stands to reason your mental functions are intact," chimed in Banner.

"So assuming this works, I could be a vegetable. There's a lot of _if_ s involved in this Coulson." Clint's eyes were pleading with Phil for an answer, some sage advice on what to do.

"In the interest of full disclosure," added Tony, taking a step closer to Coulson, "we technically have to try and restart your heart _after_ we put you back in your body."

"Great." Barton rubbed his face with his hands; he was suddenly so tired, tired of fighting only to have one more obstacle placed in his path. "That's just great. In saving me, you could kill me, turn me into a vegetable or let's face it were dealing with alien tech, knowing my luck it'll turn me into a goddamn Phoenix."

"The decision's yours Clint. No one's going to force you to try anything you're not comfortable with," Coulson offered. He didn't have a backup plan for this situation, there was no contingency plan for Barton not becoming corporeal again, but they couldn't force the archer to take the risk either.

Barton dragged the toe of his boot across the ground. It was do or die; the reward great, the alternative still somehow better than haunting the halls of Stark Tower watching the world pass him by. Softly he said, "Let's do it."

"Are you sure?" Phil could feel the anxiousness flowing off the archer; it was palpable to his own.

"Yeah, well what else are we going to do?"

"We're going to give this ago then?" checked Tony, receiving a nod from Coulson.

Tony and Bruce spurred into action. It took a moment for the words gain enough courage to reach Clint's lips. "One condition, I don't want to be here if I don't have to. This isn't something I think I want to watch and if it is going to be my final hour, I'd rather spend it somewhere with a better view."

"Does Clint need to be here for this to work?" voiced Phil.

Bruce and Tony shared a look. "It would be better. We don't know how wide a net this thing is going to cast when we set it off," ventured Stark, finding his voice first. "It will probably take us an hour to set up if that helps?"

"Barton will be back here in fifty minutes."

* * *

The rest of the team hadn't wanted to leave the lab, but at Stark insistence, they retreated back to the living room to wait on pins and needles to hear if Banner and Stark would be successful. The scientists shared the desire to be there for the moment of truth, but working with unpredictable elements it was safer for all involved to keep a minimal number of variables in the equation. Neither wanted to see the looks of disappointment on their teammates' faces should the unthinkable transpire. The pressure of an audience was so daunting they even sent Coulson away, only to return when Clint did. Clint had set out to watch the sun set from the roof of Stark Tower and Tony desperately hoped it wouldn't be the archer's last.

"Time?" asked Stark, nimbly attaching wires.

"Twelve minutes," reported Banner.

"Just have to tighten this and then we can attach the orb, use this reactor to jump start the orb and we can either hold ourselves in the ranks with Doctor Frankenstein or…" The other option hung in the air like a lasting stench. It was hard to ignore all the emergency resuscitation equipment moved into the room and the medical team on standby.

"Right, everything's a go on my end."

Clint appeared in the lab, looking around frantically. "Shit, where's Coulson," he demanded.

"Alright pretty," said Tony carefully picking up the orb, oblivious to the archer and his distress. "Let's slip you in here and…" The second the orb touched the cradle it began to glow, throwing electrical sparks into the air. Alarms started flashing across the computer screens as Tony quickly backed away.

"Energy levels are spiking," warned the doctor.

"We haven't done anything yet," countered the billionaire.

"I don't think the orb cares." Bruce's fingers flew across the screen trying every trick he knew to try and stall the release of energy. "I can't shut it off without losing energy."

"We do that and we lose our shot at this."

"We're going to have to do this right now!"

"We need to get the orb next to the body." Tony reached out for the cradle receiving a shock for his effort. He shook his arm trying to alleviate the numbing tingle. "JARVIS I need a suit!"

"No, god damn it Tony. I need you to hear me," begged Barton. They were early and Coulson hadn't come back to the lab yet. "I know who's been helping Charlie, I need to tell Coulson."

The lights dimmed as the metal pieces of the latest Iron Man suit pieced themselves together, wrapping Stark in their protective metal. "Bruce, get to observation room," ordered Iron Man, grabbing the orb without affliction. The doctor scrambled to comply, silently praying that whatever set the orb off prematurely wasn't going to derail their efforts.

"Oh, I hope you made it back here Barton." Iron Man placed the orb next to Barton's lifeless body, its glow increasing until it dwarfed the lights within the tower.

"Tony, it was…" Everything plunged into darkness.


	26. Chapter 26

Everything felt soft and warm and _safe_. Clint forced his finger to move, to test the limits and reality of what he was experiencing; what he got was a small almost unnoticeable twitch. He felt limp and weighted, like stepping out of the pool after swimming for an hour. His tongue ran over his scratchy mouth and cracked lips in preparation of speech, to ask some important question that required too much energy to conjure at the moment. He was about to let himself float away into the easy and comforting darkness, when a pressure on his hand changed. "Tasha?"

His voice was rough even to his own ears and as he struggled to open his eyelids which felt heavy and uncooperative. The light was blinding, fuzzing everything out in a white haze that slowly began to give way to blob like shapes and skewed colors. It wasn't a red head perched near the foot of his hospital bed, but a welcome sight all the same. "You got ugly Natasha."

Stark yanked his hand back into his lap. "Yeah, well you weren't winning any beauty pageants before the bomb blew you all to hell," he countered with an exaggerated grumble.

The last of warm haze dissolved immediately as Clint's heart started to pound in his chest. His hands, though horrifically uncoordinated shot to his chest and face, feeling for any evidence of the damage Stark had spoken of. People didn't get up close and personal with explosives and walk away looking the same way they did before.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Tony, raising his voice to grab the archer's attention. He grabbed Barton's fumbling hands and pushed them back down against the mattress to keep the struggling man from pulling out something important. "You're fine. Not that kind of bomb, sorta."

Confusion painted both their faces. Tony tried to ignore the sinking feeling deep in his gut. The medical team had provided a helpful list of depression, a list of possible ailments and medical conditions for the team to dwell over as they waited for Clint to wake up. Preliminary tests had confirmed that the archer would live, though even without the medical degree, Tony surmised that based on the rise and fall of the formerly dead man's chest and said man's tenacity for defying the odds.

It had been touch and go in the minutes after the orb performed its task. The medical team had had a hard time resuscitating the archer and keeping him alive, but eventually they got a steady heart beat that didn't faulter. The team had crammed themselves into the recovery room, letting the room fill with nothing, but the hiss of the ventilator and cautious hope for seven days.

The list of potential disabilities that could arise from being dead for weeks was the troubling part. There had been no guarantee that Clint would even wake up, let alone what condition he'd be in when he did. In true Barton fashion, he had approached something resembling consciousness eight days after Tony brought him back, but not to a level anyone could test to see if Clint was still in one piece. This was the first actual interaction and Stark wasn't sure he could bear it if the archer wasn't completely whole. "What do you remember Barton?"

Clint took a deep cleansing breath and tried to focus on the last clear thought he could grab onto. It was like looking at pieces of a broken mirror, there were feelings and fragments of moments that were crystal clear but the edges and context around them was distorted and fragmented. Most of it didn't make sense but it felt right. "There was a bomb," started Barton, his words still slurring and breaking. "And none of you could hear me… or see me. Was I dead?"

Tony tilted his head from side to side. "Technically, but don't worry I fixed it."

"Oh. Okay." The archer couldn't fight his yawn any longer as his eyes started to drift closed.

"Why don't you get some sleep and I'll go tell the docs you're not a vegetable and they can run their pointless tests just to make sure everything's copacetic." Stark crammed the felt pen he'd been holding into his pocket before abandoning the chair that had been his home for the last few days. He just got to his feet when Clint's eyes snapped back open.

"What were you doing earlier? Were you holding my hand before?" he asked, voice heavy with the pull of sleep.

Tony gave a dismissive shake of his head. "What? No, nothing and absolutely not!"

"Huh." Clint managed to get his head to life off the pillow a tiny fraction to give him a better view of his hand. Squinting, he tried to see past all the tubes and tape attached to the back of his hand. Slowly the blue blob began to take on recognizable shapes. "Doesn't look like nothing."

Stark reached over and patted the archer's foot. "Don't worry about it."

Clint managed a small quirk of his lip at the Stark Industries logo printed on his hand. As his head flopped back against the pillow he added, "That better not be permanent."

"Hey, at least it's not on your ass," retorted Tony but Clint was already out like a light. It didn't matter though, everything was right with the world. Barton was awake, talking and moving, even if the medical staff did their tests and found some kind of brain damage, the archer they knew and loved was still there. If Clint didn't really remember his out of body experience that was bonus points for him; the rest of the team still had to come to terms with everything but knowing the archer might be spared those memories was icing. He could finally give the rest of the team some good news.

* * *

Natasha let the shadows envelop her, standing far enough back from the observation window to not be seen by the occupants but close enough that she could take in every detail going on. Every blip of Clint's heart monitor, every rise and fall of his chest, she painstakingly chiselled to her memory. For someone who was such a big part of her life, it was amazing how the most intimate details, every line on his face, the way the light brought out the colors in his eyes, had lost their clarity in her memory. This time she was going to make sure they were every square inch of him, every laugh and facial tick were stored in high definition, never to fade.

"It generally works better if you go in," said Coulson, moving to stand beside her. Romanoff didn't answer, didn't twitch. "He's been awake for five days. The rest of the team have all been in to see him."

"I know." It was cold and professional, the kind of distance she put between herself and a mark to keep from feeling anything. "Stark's been camped out there the whole time."

"You could pull up another chair. I'm sure Stark wouldn't have minded the company. You hung out in the lab the entire time he was working on this."

"He needed it more." Stark had been a hurricane of despair while she had been a contained flame of despair. It was hard to miss how the inventor felt, how much he needed absolution for a crime that hadn't been his in the first place. The victory won to save Barton had been Tony's and after all he had suffered, it seemed unfair to take away the reward before he pulled himself back together.

"And what do you need?"

"I don't… I." The words were hard to form. They'd had so many close calls over the years but it had never felt like the end, there had always been some small shred of faith that they would get through it. This time she had lost him and it nearly destroyed her. Some of her earliest memories were being trained to be a solitary hunter, killing without thought or feeling; her heart encased in ice where no one would touch it, but somehow he had. Her needs had always been secondary to the mission; it was the only way to survive. Now here was Coulson, with his kind eyes and reluctant smile insisting that the only way to survive was to carve out something for herself. "I just need him to be alright."

Never one for people invading her personal space, close contact was a weapon used on missions rather than of personal comfort, Coulson stayed at her side offering moral support through his presence. "The doctors have given him a positive prognosis. He's a little fuzzy on his out of body experiences, but otherwise unscathed."

"We got lucky. I really thought we lost him this time Coulson. Clint was gone and everything else just didn't seem important anymore. I don't know if I can go through that again. How many more times are we going to cheat death?"

"Do you really want to wait to find out or use whatever time you have left to be a little happy. You are _allowed_ to be happy Romanoff. He's allowed to be happy."

"Perhaps." It was probably a bad idea. History was filled with the tragic tales of those that thought they could have it all. But waiting might be there, _her_ weakness. Giving in to the one thing they wanted might actually make her stronger. There had to be something to it, something dangerous if the Red Room warned against it. She left Coulson's side without a word, slinking into Clint's room with her usual stealth.

Barton took one last drag off his straw before returning the glass to the bedside table. His hand shook slightly through the medial task and he quickly dropped to it to his side. "Hey," he croaked, sounding like he had been through a couple of rounds. His color hadn't quite returned and the abandoned medical equipment still stationed around the bed did nothing to suggest that he wasn't doing poorly.

He slid his legs to the side of the bed, giving her room to sit, but she opted for the chair Tony had been calling home for the last week. "How are you doing?"

Clint tilted his head to the side. "Fuzzy, little sore, mostly tired, itching to get out of here though. Any chance of that happening soon?"

"Stark's keeping the SHIELD research teams at bay so it's his medical team calling the shots. I'm sure he's tired of sleeping in this plastic chair so I think they'll give you the all clear as soon as possible."

"And what about you? Are you tired of standing in the hallway yet?"

Natasha went stiff. It was an honest question and she shouldn't have put it past Clint to miss a detail like that. "I didn't want to intrude."

"Since when do you intrude?"

She always thought it was cute when he frowned in confusion, but being on the receiving end of it made her stomach drop. "I thought after what happened, you might need your space." It was mostly a lie and one she knew she didn't sell very convincingly. "What exactly do you remember Clint?"

Barton closed his eyes. "It's like random stills from a movie. A brief snapshot that without context means nothing and then there are moments of strong feelings, but no picture to go with it."

"We gave up on you," she confessed. "You were dead and we just carried on, went through the motions…"

Clint reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it tight, firmly between his own. "I remember you. I'll always remember you and you didn't give up."

"I can't lose you Clint," she sobbed, nestling her head on his shoulder and curling up beside him on the bed. She had never held on so tight to something or someone in her life but he never said a word.

* * *

**Three Weeks Later**

The clank of weights connecting as Clint steadfastly continued his work out on the machine filled the SHIELD gym. His arms burned, but it felt good to get out and actually do something that wasn't regulated to "your ass stays on the couch or in your room" as mandated by Tony and his high priced and highly decorated medical professionals. He knew he was reaching the reasonable time to quit mark, but who knew when he'd be able to come back.

The door cracked open and Coulson stuck his head in. Clint rolled his eyes, but that didn't stop the agent to come all the way in.

"I knew Stark was going to send a bloodhound after me, just figured it be Cap though; guy loves to give lectures."

Phil laughed; there were worse people to get lectures from, many of whom were in the building. "Front desk told me you've been here for almost two hours. Overdoing it a little aren't we?" he asked, sitting down on the bench beside the archer and letting his hands rest on the weights sitting there. It would probably come across as a more friendly chat if he picked the weights up but he wasn't willing to engage in a work out in his suit, no matter how much it would add to the mystic that was his reputation.

Clint finally stopped, wiping the sweat off his face with the towel he had resting over his shoulders. "Have to get ready for qualification. Can't pull any SHIELD missions if I can't be certified as fit."

"There's no time limit, you don't have to push yourself and you certainly don't have to drag yourself to headquarters to do it either." Phil understood all too well the need to get back out there, to be useful once again. He was torn between encouraging his friend, glad to see him getting back to his old self and wanting to drag him home and tell him to take it easy, they'd almost lost him.

"I'd love to hit Stark's gym or the range but some billionaire, genius, control freak has refused to give me access until _he_ decides I'm fit for duty. And since the doctor's are on his payroll, he gets to control their official medical report too, so no Avengers missions to get ready for." He was torn between being bitter at being sidelined and enjoying the concern.

"You could always hack the lock."

"Yeah but it's the least I can do since he brought me back from the dead and what not. And JARVIS kinda takes offence when you hack his systems. Plus getting out of the tower reduces the odds of me strangling Stark in his sleep next time be baby proofs my place."

"Baby proofs?" asked Coulson, not entirely sure he wanted elaboration.

"Oh yeah," continued Clint, looking a little put out, "the little things for the electrical sockets and everything. We're not even going to talk about Cap or Thor!"

"They're concerned."

"I know. Don't get me wrong, it's sweet on some weird level, but it's going to get someone killed and I'm not talking ironic frustration 'oh you guys' kinda killed either. There has to be a certain level of every man for themselves out there and right now we don't have it. Hell, they're probably thinking of new ways to wrap me in bubble wrap while they're out on a call and I'm back at the Tower under lock and key."

The electronic sound of _Iron Man_ began to radiate from Barton's workout bag. "I'll give you a guess who that is." Begrudgingly, he got up to rifle through his bag to find the offending phone. Tapping answer, the screen burst to life. "Yes mother?"

"This doesn't look like 'I'm going to go to my room and take a nap' or did your brain get scrambled that we have to re-teach you the English language?" demanded Stark.

"I sleepwalk," replied Clint. "Don't worry, you're babysitter showed up and I'm sure he'll give me a ride home." Clint turned the phone around so Tony could see Phil sitting there.

"Agent! Make sure you put him in his car seat and have him home ASAP. Seriously, five point harn…"

Clint mashed his thumb down on the end call button before Tony could finish. "Seriously, I could establish a case for an insanity plea right? There's no court in the world that would convict me for taking Stark out."

Coulson shrugged. "Probably not, but in the interest of world safety..."

"Come on, better go before he comes down here. Cause he will, then Fury'll get pissed off and I'll never get recertified." Barton grabbed his bag and headed for the locker room to get changed.

* * *

**One Month Later**

Natasha hefted her go bag higher on her shoulder. The tower was quiet like the world had been for the last few weeks and with no signs of anything pressing for the Avengers on the horizon, it was time to get back to what she did best. The living room was relatively calm, Banner in his chair reading, Clint pretending to be a sleep on the couch and Thor perched on the edge of his seat intently watching TV. Stark had introduced him to some kind of Springer-esk trash show which Thor found entirely entertaining, especially when the fights started. She thought about introducing him to wrestling, but the furniture wouldn't survive his excitement.

"You off?" asked Barton without opening his eyes.

"Just have to grab Rogers."

"Where you going?"

"DC."

Clint cracked an eye open. "Guys could you give us a moment?"

A wicked smile played across Thor's face. "Come Banner, let us engage in another round of chess."

Bruce looked at Natasha, then Clint before sighing and put his book down. "You know I'm not going to lose it over a chess game right? Cause that was your plan? Irritate me to the point where I break and you get to play with your green friend, right?"

Thor feigned hurt. "I have no idea what you are speaking of. I truly believe I have mastered the pattern of the little horse." He clapped a large hand around the Doctor's shoulder as they headed out of the room.

"Don't worry, I had Fury make it seem like it was Steve's idea to pull the mission. Stark and Bruce are buried in the middle of some project to maintain peace and Thor has plans to go home. That should keep them from going to critical alert with pestering you. No security detail in place to watch you."

Barton rolled into a sitting position. "That's not going to matter. Got cleared by SHIELD, Fury has me rolling out in a couple of days."

Natasha bit the inside of her lip. She wasn't sure how she felt about Clint getting his clearance to go back out in the field. A bird needed the sky, a spy a mission. She more than anyone knew how capable he was, hell he'd gotten one up on her before, but it was still the first time he was going out since… First mission back and she wasn't going to be the one to have his back.

"Don't worry so much." He grabbed her hand and pulled her close. "I have something for you."

Gently he placed a flat, red box in her hand. He motioned for her to open it, her breath catching in her throat.

"It's beautiful." Her hand ghosted over the box.

"It was my mother's," he said, pulling out the necklace and draping it around her neck. She pulled her hair up to let him fit the clasp together. "Well the silver was hers. It was the one thing of hers I kept. She used to hide it in a hole in the wall behind one of the baseboards so my father wouldn't pawn it. This gaudy hunky, silver bracelet and I managed to keep it hidden all through foster care and the circus. Anyways, I melted it down and made this."

She couldn't pull her hand away from the necklace, a simple chain with a small but beautiful arrow in the center, made from one of the most important things in his life. "I don't know what to say."

"I figure it beats my blue shirt, which I want back by the way."

She leaned in for a kiss. Patting her duffle, the weight of the shirt a secure feeling, she broke away. "I'll see you when we get back," she promised.

"That's a no, I can't get my shirt back?"

Natasha just waved and pressed the button for the elevator. Things weren't back to normal but they might be on their way to being better than normal.

**The End**


End file.
